THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 


THE 
HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 


BY 


STORM  JAMESON 


Into  my  heart  an  air  that  kills 
From  yon  far  country  blows: 

What  are  those  blue  remembered  hills, 
What  spires,  what  farms  are  those? 

That  is  the  land  of  lost  content, 

I  see  it  shining  plain, 
The  happy  highways  where  1  went 
And  cannot  come  again. 

From  "A  Shropshire  Lad" 
By  A.  E.  Housman. 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1920 


Copyright,  1920,  by 
THE  CENTOBY  Co. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

BOOK     I  —  IRRESPONSIBILITY 

BOOK    II  —  THE  EIKONOKLASTS:    A  SCHEME   .     .     . 
BOOK  III  —  CHAOS 


BOOK  I 
IRRESPONSIBILITY 


THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 


CHAPTER  I 

I  HAVE  made  three  beginnings  to  my  book.  Each  morning  of 
the  past  week  I  have  taken  myself  and  my  papers  to  the  side 
of  the  beck  and  tried  to  make  order  from  the  headlong  memories. 
I  meant  this  to  be  a  book  of  youth,  and  I  tried  first  to  put  into 
words  the  quality  of  days  when  thoughts  stir  and  whisper  along 
the  mind  from  old  unfathomable  memories,  and  the  leashed  blood 
strains  and  leaps  in  an  ecstasy  older  and  more  cunning  than  the 
eldest  speech.  The  wind  blew  my  papers  over  the  green  shoots 
of  the  daffodils,  and  as  I  lay  face  downwards  on  the  cool  earth 
there  came  only  the  brave  unforgotten  colors  of  the  past.  .  .  . 

The  moor  road  twists  and  climbs  between  stark  trees,  and  at 
the  foot  of  the  last  slope  the  boy  broke  into  a  run.  He  reached 
the  top  and  stood  mute.  Below  him  the  red  roofs  and  narrow 
streets  of  the  town  went  down  to  the  edge  of  the  bay.  The  risen 
sun  had  passed  behind  low-hung  clouds:  its  rays  poured  down 
and  rimmed  the  waiting  sea  with  silver.  And  as  he  watched, 
there  came  across  the  waters  a  glory  that  he  could  hardly  bear  .  .  . 

Now  I  remember  the  nightly  journeys  from  school  in  the  train 
that  rushed  and  rocked  along  the  cliffs.  There  came  a  point 
in  the  journey  when  the  lights  of  the  valley  leaped  out  of  the 
darkness  and  stirred  in  me  such  a  passion  of  formless  desires 
and  wild,  inarticulate  ambition  that  I  held  my  breath  in  some- 
thing liker  pain  than  pleasure.  The  train  sweeps  round  the 
corner,  and  the  little  town,  sunk  in  the  enchanted  night,  has 
fled  back  into  the  darkness.  .  .  . 

I  set  myself  to  write  of  the  last  days  in  those  trenches  I  shall 
not  see  again.  I  failed  once  more  —  a  curious  failure.  For 
three  days  after  they  told  me  I  had  lost  my  sight,  I  was  afraid 
to  think.  I  lay  in  bed,  trying  to  get  out  of  my  head  that  image 
of  a  dark  curtain,  dropped  between  me  and  the  life  I  hungered 

3 


4  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

for.  I  was  desperately  afraid  that  I  should  begin  to  tear  at  it 
with  my  hands,  struggle,  rave  ...  I  am  twenty-seven,  and  I 
loved  the  things  of  the  earth. 

And  on  the  fourth  morning  I  woke  to  find  myself  at  the  other 
side  of  the  curtain.  That  is  the  only  way  I  can  get  into  words 
the  sense  of  lightness  and  freedom  that  came  to  me.  I  had  no 
illusions.  I  knew  that  my  sight  was  gone  for  good,  and  yet  I 
was  suddenly  and  strangely  freed  of  an  intolerable  burden.  The 
blood,  the  squalor,  the  things  I  had  suffered,  all  the  sights  and 
sounds  of  the  war  were  gone  from  my  mind.  I  was  free  of  them. 
I  laughed  aloud.  The  gods  that  had  taken  my  eyes  had  given 
me  back  the  heart  of  a  child.  .  .  . 

There  was  something  almost  tangible  in  my  happiness.  I 
thought  about  it,  fingered  it,  feared  to  lose  it.  My  waking 
thoughts  were  always  of  it.  I  had  a  forlorn  dread  of  the  curtain 
that  had  dropped  behind  me,  a  dread  that  did  not  leave  me  for 
many  weeks.  It  faded  in  its  turn.  I  stood  on  hills  I  had  known 
and  half  forgotten,  and  drew  again  from  the  fresh,  inexhaustible 
sources  of  my  life.  In  my  black  hours,  in  my  moments  of  sav- 
age revulsion  and  regret,  I  am  held  above  the  wrecking  madness 
of  despair.  I  know  that  there  are  men  for  whom  the  curtain  has 
not  lifted.  There  was  young  Gladding:  he  got  shrapnel  in  his 
face:  I  helped  to  carry  him  to  the  dressing  station.  I  found  out 
the  other  day  that  he  had  shot  himself.  He  was  a  pretty  little 
fool,  and  he  had  been  proud  of  his  good  looks.  God  rest  his  soul : 
the  war  is  unkind  to  pretty  fools  who  have  not  the  merit  of  high 
birth. 

Thus  it  comes  about  that  I  can  no  more  write  of  the  war  than 
of  a  life  I  have  never  known.  During  the  last  week  I  have  had 
here  two  men:  one  who  will  not  go  back  to  France  for  many 
months,  and  an  airman  who  is  on  his  way  now.  The  first  man  is 
suffering  from  shell-shock.  He  sat  in  my  quiet  room  and  talked 
almost  without  ceasing.  At  times  the  hurried,  eager  voice  rose 
until  it  filled  the  room.  "You  remember  the  trenches  in  that 
first  winter,"  he  said  —  "no,  of  course  you  don't;  you  men  that 
went  out  in  'fifteen  don't  know  anything  about  war.  Mud! 
There  has  never  been  mud  like  that  in  'fourteen.  You  could  n't 
walk  along  the  communication  trenches.  When  you  were  re- 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  5 

lieved  you  crawled  along  the  top  of  the  trench.  The  men  fell 
into  shell  holes  in  the  dark.  You  had  to  leave  them  there. 
If  a  man  went  back  to  help  he  fell  in  and  the  mud  got  him  too. 
I  still  hear  them  screaming  for  help.  It's  a  funny  thing,  you 
know,  but  they  always  called  for  their  mothers  when  they  were 
nearly  gone.  You  'd  think  that  was  all  cant,  would  n't  you? 
But  it  isn't,  you  know.  I  heard  'em.  Screaming  in  the  dark. 
*  Mother  —  oh,  God  —  mother,  mother !  '  He  shouted  with 
laughter  at  the  memory,  catching  his  breath  and  trying  to  talk 
as  he  shook  and  rocked  in  his  chair. 

The  airman  talked  as  much,  but  in  a  different  way.  He  was 
naively  sure  of  my  interest  in  the  details  of  his  adventures,  and 
he  had  a  trick  of  vivid  narrative.  "  Everything  below  was  a 
great  black  slate  "— r  he  was  observing  a  battery  at  night  — "  with 
tongues  of  flame  licking  at  the  darkness."  I  imagined  him  sweep- 
ing his  hand  at  the  rushing  shadows. 

I  heard  both  these  men  with  the  same  sense  that  I  was  listening 
to  tales  of  an  alien  world.  I  had  no  part  or  lot  with  them. 


CHAPTER  II 

f  I  ^HERE  is  no  war  in  my  world.  It  is  the  world  in  which  I 
_|_  lived  in  1910,  only  a  little  wiser,  a  little  less  assured,  more 
insistent  in  its  needs,  more  articulate  in  its  desires. 

We  were  students  then  —  at  the  college  in  the  Strand  —  four 
men  and  a  girl,  sharing  rooms  in  Herne  Hall,  walking  every 
morning  over  Denmark  Hill  to  catch  the  Chalk  Farm  'bus  to 
town,  quarreling,  arguing,  working,  and  intent  on  seeing  life 
with  an  earnestness  that  defeated  its  own  ends.  Michael,  Oliver 
and  I  are  brothers :  Margaret  was  our  friend  at  school.  Anthony 
Calvert  we  had  met  first  at  college  and  gathered  into  the  clan. 

We  wanted  our  ideas  on  life  to  be  ordered  and  spacious  and 
truthful  after  the  best  models.  We  were  very  severe  on  what 
Mick  called  the  healthy-minded,  who  are  so  wrapped  round  in 
irrational  satisfaction  with  things  as  they  seem,  that  they  never 
by  any  chance  see  through  their  impenetrable  ignorance  to  the 
struggling,  incalculable  thing  that  is  life.  How  much  superior 
our  own  disinterested  understanding! 

We  waxed  mightily  hot  in  that  room  hung  above  the  gray 
quadrangle  of  King's.  These  were  the  days  when  the  Scheme 
was  hovering  just  outside  the  circle  of  our  consciousness,  waiting 
for  the  words  that  should  discover  and  draw  it  in.  We  sat  in 
the  dark  round  a  vast  fire,  and  the  warm  glow  flung  sharp  lights 
and  shadows  on  the  faces  of  the  men.  My  thoughts  of  the  social 
struggle  are  inextricably  mixed  up  with  that  warm  shadowed 
room  and  the  plunge  into  the  chequered  radiance  of  the  Strand. 
After  one  of  these  gatherings  we  were  filled  with  exhilaration  as 
we  pushed  our  way  along  the  crowded  pavement. 

We  looked  eagerly  into  the  faces  of  the  men  and  women  whose 
souls  we  meant  snatching,  willy-nilly,  from  a  strangling  civiliza- 
tion. The  exhilaration  lasted  while  we  stood  on  Waterloo  Bridge 
and  looked  from  the  dappled  water  to  the  brooding  spaces  of 

6 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  7 

the  sky:  but  always  as  we  went  on  it  slipped  from  us,  and  in  the 
exhausted  squalor  of  Walworth  Road  left  us  naked  and  ashamed. 

With  these  memories  come  others  —  of  the  darkened  byways, 
the  little  cafes  and  eating-houses  that  took  hold  on  our  affections. 
We  were  always  very  poor:  the  Trocadero  stood  for  us  on  un- 
attainable and  shining  heights.  I  remember  now  the  shock  of 
disappointment  with  which  I  looked  round  when  I  went  there 
for  the  first  time,  a  subaltern  on  leave,  my  pockets  full  of  good 
money.  In  those  other  days  we  sought  out  small  cafes  in  side 
streets.  There  was  the  little  eating-house  in  Greek  Street  with 
the  Italian  name  and  the  Russian  proprietor.  Deluded  into  be- 
lieving.xhat  we  were  Nihilists,  he  let  us  have  his  inner  room  for 
hours  every  evening,  until  one  day  we  found  the  place  stripped 
bare  and  deserted,  vanished  in  the  night.  There  was  Biucchi's 
in  Brixton,  where  Margaret  and  I  once  sat  at  midnight  and  ate 
roast  chicken  that  we  could  not  afford.  And  in  Richmond  was 
a  cafe  where  they  took  a  shilling  and  set  no  limit  to  appetite. 
It  was  frequented  by  lovers  who  hungered  for  the  food  of  the 
gods  and  ate  nought  else,  but  the  system  broke  down  when  we 
came. 

Once  we  gave  ourselves  a  dinner  in  the  private  room  of  another 
Soho  cafe.  We  chose  it  for  its  name,  and  I  have  forgotten  it. 
Margaret  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table  in  a  thin  black  dinner 
gown.  Her  gaiety  topped  ours:  there  was  about  her  a  lift  and 
surge  of  excitement  that  flooded  up  in  her  voice  and  gestures 
from  a  hidden  source.  We  had  with  us  two  guests  we  had  not 
seen  before  that  night  and  never  saw  again.  One  was  a  poet. 
Oliver  had  found  him  wandering  round  Drury  Lane,  singing  for 
his  supper.  Mick  brought  the  other.  His  guest  was  an  old 
shrunken  man.  He  had  stopped  Mick  in  the  Strand  when  Mick 
was  hurrying  to  the  dinner. 

**  Honest  to  goodness,"  Mick  told  him,  "  I  have  n't  a  penny  in 
the  world."  He  turned  out  his  pockets  for  all  the  world  to 
see.  "  You  'd  better  come  and  have  some  dinner." 

The  old  wretch  came.  He  ate  and  drank,  and  a  change  took 
place  in  him.  His  cheeks  filled  out  and  his  eyes  gleamed  in 
their  narrowed  sockets.  He  began  to  talk  in  a  voice  like  the 
roar  of  a  'cello. 


8  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

"Once  I  was  young,"  said  he;  "I  had  a  little  sweetheart. 
She  'd  bright  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair." 

"  Her  eyes  were  tawny  and  her  face  was  pale,"  the  poet  inter- 
rupted drowsily. 

"  Go  to,  thou  old  eater  of  life,  I  tell  you  her  eyes  were  blue  — 
blue  as  the  sky  above  —  and  her  hair  was  the  color  of  the  corn 
beneath.  We  lay  on  the  grass  and  the  warm  earth  lived  through 
us.  Now  she  is  ugly  and  withered  and  hateful  in  my  sight.  I 
tread  stones  instead  of  grass,  and  the  earth  will  be  cold  when  I  lie 
on  it  next.  I  came  to  London  in  the  spring.  The  rain  had 
washed  the  streets.  The  sun  shone  on  the  roofs  of  the  houses, 
on  the  bridles  of  the  prancing  horses,  on  the  yellow  flowers  in 
the  windows.  It  glittered  on  the  little  pools  and  they  vanished 
like  Semele.  The  motor-cars  went  by  in  a  flash  of  light.  The 
people  walked  on  light  feet,  exhilarated  by  the  life  whirling  past 
them  in  the  sunshine." 

The  poet  was  writing  quatrains  on  the  gray  wall-paper.  He 
wrote  — 

Even  as  a  dead  leaf  in  the  autumn  eve, 
The  lifetime  of  a  man  soon  drifts  away. 

Full  soon  the  vesper  bells  call  us  to  grieve, 
And  two  and  two  the  people  go  to  pray. 

The  old  man  nodded  his  head. 

"  Quite  right,"  he  murmured.  "  She  wears  a  little  cotton 
glove  and  you  share  her  hymn-book.  The  sheep  are  nibbling  at 
the  graves  outside,  and  one  goes  pattering  across  the  flagstones 
like  a  mincing  lady  in  high  shoes.  The  scent  of  meadow-sweet 
comes  through  the  open  window,  and  the  choir  sings  —  The  da-ay 
thou  ga-avest,  Lo-ord " 

Yet  still  alone,  and  wandering  o  'er  the  earth, 
Steeped  in  the  wind,  the  sky,  the  sun  and  sea, 

I  sing  in  wayward,  solitary  mirth, 
The  songs  of  things  as  they  seem  good  to  me. 

"You  lie!  "  the  other  roared.  "You  were  never  steeped  in 
anything  but  drink.  You  never  see  the  sky  for  the  electric  sky 
signs.  You  never  wandered  in  your  life  but  between  Battersea 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  9 

and  Bow.  You  never  stood  on  a  cliff  and  hugged  the  wind  to 
your  body.  You  old  stealer  of  youth!  You  trader  of  youth  for 
a  rotten  sonnet!  " 

Mick  was  staring  at  his  guest  in  whimsical  perplexity. 

"What  is  youth?"  he  asked.  "When  one  is  old,  what  is 
youth?  " 

The  poet  opened  his  mouth  to  answer,  but  the  old  man  pushed 
him  back  against  the  wall. 

"  Youth  is  wine  to  be  poured  away.  Youth  is  the  old  heady 
wine  of  the  earth.  Youth  is  the  chalice  whereinto  the  earth 
empties  herself.  .  .  ." 

Margaret  laughed  suddenly,  and  said  in  her  high  clear  voice 
that  it' was  really  much  simpler  than  that  to  be  young.  Her 
laugh  pricked  the  old  maniac's  excitement.  He  sat  down  and 
picked  with  his  fingers  at  the  tablecloth. 

I  do  not  remember  much  about  the  dinner,  except  that  we 
talked,  laughing  and  quoting  poetry,  until  the  short  summer  night 
slipped  under  the  wings  of  the  dawn.  It  was  an  impatient  dawn, 
beating  against  the  fiery  ribs  of  the  east.  We  set  off  towards 
it  down  the  road  as  lightly  as  if  we  had  behind  us  a  night  of  sleep 
and  not  a  night  spent  talking  nonsense  over  candles  guttering 
out  on  a  disordered  dinner-table.  There  were  houses  on  either 
side  of  us,  and  frowsy  Life  rubbed  her  eyes  in  the  alleys.  But 
the  road  might  have  run  between  eld  fields  and  beech-trees.  It 
might  have  been  the  good  road  to  the  north,  with  the  north  wind 
blowing  back  our  hair.  We  should  not  have  trod  it  more  gaily. 


CHAPTER  III 

MY  father  was  an  amiable  fool. 
That  is  not  quite  true;  he  was  a  Hearne,  and  the  black 
Hearne  temper  drowsed  in  him.  As  he  grew  older,  the  thought 
of  his  failure  was  a  devil's  goad.  He  fell  into  rages  black  as 
the  storms  that  tear  suddenly  from  the  still  waters  of  the  sky 
and  lash  the  crouching  moors  in  fury.  Then  we  fled  before  him. 
There  was  one  clear  hot  morning  when  Michael  and  I  ran,  stum- 
bling, across  the  open  moor.  As  we  ran  we  left  a  trail  of  blood 
on  the  moss  and  red  ling.  A  horsewhip  swished  round  our  legs 
and  cut  open  our  heads.  Long  after  he  had  caught  his  foot  in 
a  hole  and  lay  cursing  with  a  twisted  ankle,  we  ran,  hearing  my 
father's  heavy  steps  in  every  bound  of  the  black-faced  sheep, 
and  in  the  rush  of  the  water  rat  through  the  streams  hearing  the 
whistle  of  his  whip.  We  dragged  Oliver  between  us,  hot,  and 
sobbing  at  every  step.  He  was  five  years  old  and  very  fat.  His 
plump  little  body  shrank  in  terror  from  the  whip.  When  at  last 
we  rested  he  sat  digging  his  round  fists  into  the  ground,  and  rub- 
bing at  his  face  until  earth  and  tears  and  tangled  red  curls  made 
so  grotesque  an  object  of  him  that  we  laughed,  forgetting  wounds 
and  hunger. 

Sometimes  the  black  mood  came  on  him  at  night,  and  then, 
rolled  together  for  warmth,  we  slept  out  in  the  old  quarry. 
Sometimes,  coming  home  evil  drunk,  he  sat  in  the  kitchen,  watch- 
ing us  with  a  brooding  malice.  We  waited  in  stiff-limbed  terror, 
moving  on  legs  that  jerked  and  shook.  Suddenly  something  ir- 
ritated him,  and  with  a  roar,  he  leaped  on  the  fore-doomed  wretch 
and  thrashed  him  until  exhaustion  stopped  his  arm. 

He  never  struck  my  mother  but  once.  He  had  been  particu- 
larly cheerful  and  affectionate,  playing  and  laughing  with  us  in 
the  afternoon.  Then  at  night,  in  the  warm  half-lighted  kitchen, 
the  evil  spirit  took  him.  He  sat  looking  at  us  with  glazed  eyes. 
Mick  was  recovering  weakly  from  a  heavy  chill,  and  his  white 

10 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  11 

face  was  an  offense.  He  cowered  in  his  chair  when  the  mad 
thing  turned  on  him.  My  mother  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  You  touch  him,"  she  said,  "  you  touch  him." 

She  spoke  in  an  expressionless  voice  and  her  eyes  were  fixed 
on  my  father  with  an  intense  burning  passion.  He  stopped  short 
in  his  torrent  of  words  and  stepped  back.  A  hesitant,  furtive 
look  crossed  his  face.  Then  he  smiled.  He  struck  my  mother 
lightly  on  either  ear. 

"Will  you  be  pleased  to  sit  down?"  he  said,  with  a  thin, 
evil  mockery  in  his  voice. 

He  set  a  chair  and  bowed,  and  smiled  into  her  face.  She 
shivered,  and  half  slipped  into  the  chair.  He  took  a  rope  from 
the  table*"  drawer  and  bound  her  quickly,  talking  all  the  while 
in  a  gentle  voice.  He  left  a  long  end  of  rope,  and  after  knotting 
it  in  several  places,  advanced  slowly  towards  Mick. 

"  Mother  and  child,"  he  said.     "  So  bound  together." 

The  murderous  knotted  end  hung  in  the  air.  In  another 
moment  it  would  have  cut  down  on  the  terrified  boy.  But  in 
that  moment  something  happened  to  me.  A  vibrant  noise  that 
had  been  running  in  my  head,  stopped.  I  saw  everything  with 
great  distinctness.  Hatred  of  my  father  pulsed  through  my  limbs. 
I  stepped  across  to  him,  and  caught  the  uplifted  arm. 

The  room  swam  before  me.  Mick's  white  face,  my  mother's 
straining  body,  merged  with  the  shadows  of  the  chairs  into  a 
malignant  fantasy.  I  realized  that  I  was  rising  of  six  feet  tall 
and  strong  beyond  my  fourteen  years,  while  he  was  but  a  puny 
thing  with  no  strength  in  him  but  the  strength  of  anger  and 
drink.  I  shook  him  until  he  was  limp  and  detestable. 

"  Bea  n't  to  strike  'un,"  I  said  monotonously,  "  bea  n't  to 
strike  'un." 

I  heard  my  mother  wailing,  but  it  was  far-off  and  thin,  like 
the  wail  of  the  lost  soul  that  goes  crying  in  a  curlew's  shape. 
When  I  let  him  go,  he  turned  and  staggered  out  of  the  house. 
His  drunken  steps  carried  him  into  the  low  brook,  and  he  lay 
there,  half  in  and  half  out  of  the  water,  all  night  long. 

The  night  started  a  mischief  in  his  body  that  must  have  been 
latent,  and  within  four  months  he  was  dead  of  quick  consumption. 
He  lay  dying  a  week.  We  shrank  from  him.  On  the  day  he 


THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

died  he  asked  for  us.  We  slunk  into  the  room,  uneasy  and 
ashamed.  The  pinched,  colorless  face  between  the  pillows  stared 
furtively  at  death.  He  looked  tired,  as  if  life  had  already  ebbed 
far  from  him,  and  he  lay  stretched  along  the  void,  listening  to 
its  slow-receding  shallows.  Under  the  piled-up  bed  clothes  his 
thin  legs  were  the  wrack  flung  by  the  surf,  drying  in  the  sunlight 
of  death. 

His  breath  was  loud,  as  if  he  sucked  in  water  and  tried  to 
breathe  it  out  again.  With  an  impatient  movement  of  his  hand, 
he  had  us  kneel  on  the  floor  at  the  head  of  his  bed.  In  his  sunken 
eyes  flickered  the  cracked,  distorted  love  for  the  dramatic  and 
fantastic  face  of  things  that  had  pricked  him  oddly  all  his  life. 
He  passed  his  hand  over  our  heads  in  turn. 

'  'T  is  a  good  lad,"  he  murmured  to  Oliver,  and  to  Michael  — 
"  Unstable  as  water  thou  shalt  not  excel." 

I  shivered  in  the  hot  August  sun  as  the  cold  fingers  pressed 
upon  my  head. 

"  Art  hard,  Joy,"  he  said.     "  Art  too  hard.     Shall  suffer  for  V 

An  intolerable  pity  rose  in  my  throat.  "  Father  — "  I  said, 
and  with  a  blind  groping  — "  Feyther." 

His  face  twitched.  "The  larch  trees,  Joy?  "  he  said.  "Hast 
forgotten,  eh,  lad?  " 

Queer  he  should  remember  that  then.  I  was  a  sullen,  slow 
baby,  and  would  not  learn  to  talk,  but  one  day  as  he  lifted  me 
to  touch  the  feathery  green  of  the  young  larches  I  put  my  arms 
round  his  neck,  and  said  — "  Feyther."  It  pleased  him,  and  he 
boasted  of  it.  I  do  not  think  that  a  man  has  much  real  love  for 
his  sons,  but  maybe  his  first-born  takes  a  hold  on  him  the  others 
do  not. 

After  they  went  he  kept  me  in  the  room.  I  persuaded  my 
mother  to  go  and  rest  a  while.  As  the  room  darkened  he  seemed 
to  get  restless.  I  think  his  ears  strained  after  that  distant,  ebb- 
ing murmur.  His  face  glistened.  "  Have  made  a  mess  of 
things,"  he  panted. 

"Don't  talk,"  I  said. 

"  I  must  talk,  now  or  not  again.  I  want  to  talk.  Have  spoiled 
things,  failed  in  all  my  hand  turned  to.  My  fault:  I  broke  my 
bargains.  Life  is  a  question  of  bargains.  You  say  to  her  — '  I 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  13 

will  do  so  much  work.  Mind  and  body.  And  you  will  give  me  so 
much  ease.'  I  was  to  till  the  earth.  I  broke  the  bargain:  with 
my  mind  that  was  trained  to  it ;  with  Life  that  expected  it.  So  she 
was  free  of  our  contract.  I  broke  it.  She  owed  me  nothing. 
The  same  with  marriage.  You  make  a  bargain :  you  ought  to  keep 
it,  no  matter  how  hard.  No  question  of  immorality,  but  a  bar- 
gain 's  a  bargain.  Free  love,  incompatibility  —  all  quibbles. 
You  made  a  bargain:  you  ought  to  keep  it.  Poor  lassie,  I  have 
been  a  disappointment  and  a  torture  to  her.  She  worried  me,  she 
and  her  moralities.  Have  turned  from  her,  broken  faith,  lied. 
So  I  broke  another  bargain." 

He  cOnghed,  pressing  his  head  against  the  wall,  and  opening  his 
mouth  wide. 

"  Rest,"  I  said,  "  rest  now." 
He  did  not  notice  me. 

"  I  've  thought,  if  you  were  strong  you  could  say  to  Life  — 
*  I  break  all  bargains,  yet  you  shall  still  pay  me.'  But  for  the 
weak,  the  ordinary  men,  they  must  keep  their  promises  or  expect 
nothing.  It  is  just:  I  understand.  When  I  did  not  understand,  I 
was  strong  and  comfortable.  Now  I  die,  but  it  is  better  to  un- 
derstand. Man  ought  to  understand,  but  not  to  whine  when  Life 
punishes  his  failure.  It  may  be  that  those  others,  the  strong  ones, 
pay  after  all.  They  say  — '  I  will  make  Life  in  my  image.'  And 
Life,  maybe,  slips  and  changes  in  their  hands." 
"Tis  a  hard  world,"  I  said. 
"A  just  world." 

The  room  was  almost  dark  now.     The  light  coming  through  the 

window  seemed  gathered  in  one  luminous  patch  on  the  glistening 

face.     On  his  high  forehead,  the  wisps  of  reddish  hair  lay  damp 

and  flat.     A  thin  dark  trickle  began  from  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

"  Open  the  window,"  he  said. 

I  set  the  rattling  casement  half  ajar.  The  pines  were  roaring 
above  the  hill. 

"  T  is  the  sea,"  he  murmured.  "  The  wide  sea,  that  troubles 
for  none  of  us.  Shall  wash  away  my  sins." 

A  few  moments  later  he  asked  for  a  drink.  I  brought  water 
from  the  kitchen,  and  went  for  my  mother.  As  we  came  back  we 
heard  him  say  in  a  high  clear  voice  — "  The  larch  trees  have  tiny 


14  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

pink  flowers  in  March."    When  we  reached  him,  he  was  dead. 

I  think  he  made  a  good  end.  Death  is  a  great  sweetener  of 
bad  breaths. 

With  these  memories  in  our  hearts,  how  should  we  be  aught 
but  different  and  harder? 

The  winter  after  his  death  set  sharp  teeth  in  our  passing 
childhood.  My  mother  owned  a  small  cottage  on  the  other 
side  of  the  moor,  and  we  moved  into  it.  Old  debts  had  taken 
most  of  the  first  quarter's  rent  from  the  farm.  We  were  hard 
put  to  it  all  that  winter  and  spring.  In  December  an  extraor- 
dinary fall  of  snow  shut  us  off  from  the  world  for  a  fortnight. 
No  one  could  reach  us  from  the  village  four  miles  away.  We 
stared  all  day  across  a  world  shrunken  under  a  sullen  dome  of 
sky.  We  stifled  the  fear  that  rose  in  us  as  we  looked  from  the 
dwindling  wood  pile  to  the  emptying  sack  of  flour.  During  that 
fortnight  Mary  Elizabeth  was  born,  and  lived  four  days. 

My  mother  called  her  Mary  Elizabeth,  but  she  died  unbap- 
tized.  She  was  born  starved  to  death.  We  helped  at  her 
birth,  and  when  she  died  I  washed  the  white  frail  limbs  carefully 
in  a  bowl  on  the  kitchen  floor,  and  wrapped  them  in  a  clean 
gown.  For  two  days  she  lay  on  the  hard  sofa,  and  then  we 
buried  her  in  the  snowdrift  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  That 
drift  must  have  been  twelve  feet  deep.  Oliver  wrote  an  epitaph. 

Here  lies  Mary  Elizabeth  Hearne. 
She  is  too  young  and  green  to  burn: 
Her  soul  was  like  an  anxious  bird, 
That  flies  before  it  shall  be  snared. 

He  meant  it  well:  the  hell-fury  of  the  'Rev.  Strut  had  bitten 
deep  into  our  minds. 

As  we  laid  her  in  the  drift,  a  flock  of  wild  geese  passed  over 
our  heads,  black  against  the  gray  sky. 

"  Quick,"  Mick  cried,  his  eyes  starting  in  terror  from  his 
head  — "  Oh,  quick.  Cover  her  up.  She 's  not  baptized. 
They  '11  hunt  her,  they  '11  hunt  her." 

We  could  make  fun  of  the  Rev.  Strut  and  his  Chief  Police- 
man, but  it  never  entered  our  heads  to  doubt  the  elder,  cruel 
faith.  The  thought  of  that  terrified  child-soul,  flying  with  the 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  15 

scudding  clouds  before  the  long-necked  hounds,  brought  the 
sweat  out  on  our  bodies  in  the  bitter  air.  We  worked  fever- 
ishly to  hide  her  from  the  wheeling,  screeching  torment. 

I  remember  how  she  looked  when  they  took  her  out  of  the 
drift  a  week  later.  I  thought  that  he  had  wished  for  a  daugh- 
ter. I  thought  that  if,  after  all,  there  were  anything  in  the 
parson's  faith,  how  strange  that  the  first  of  all  our  family  to 
greet  him  should  be  the  infant  girl  he  had  not  lived  to  see. 

With  the  memory  of  that  small  frozen  body  in  our  hearts,  how 
should  we  not  be  different  and  harder? 


CHAPTER  IV 

WE  left  our  moor  village  for  a  small  house  in  the  town,  and 
there  —  at  school  —  met  Margaret  Douglass.  She  was  six- 
teen when  she  first  came  to  the  school  and  so  shy  that  an  unex- 
pected greeting  brought  a  hot  flush  to  her  cheeks,  and  she  would 
feign  ignorance  rather  than  answer  a  question  in  class.  She  cov- 
ered her  shyness  with  an  air  of  self-possession  that  amused  the 
whole  school.  She  came  on  a  late  train,  and  through  the  windows 
of  the  sixth  form  class-room  Mick  and  I  watched  her  saunter  down 
the  corridor,  push  open  the  door  of  the  fifth  form  room  and  make 
a  grave  survey  of  the  class  before  settling  herself  at  her  desk. 
She  sat  at  the  desk  below  Oliver's  and  she  had  not  been  in  the 
school  a  term  before  they  were  open  rivals.  In  all  science  and 
mathematical  subjects  she  was  hopeless,  having  had  no  sort  of 
training  in  them.  But  she  had  been  well  tutored  in  Latin  and 
Greek  and  knew,  I  suppose,  as  much  of  English  literature  then 
as  most  students  know  at  the  end  of  a  college  course.  She  had 
stores  of  information  on  odd  subjects,  and  in  her  delight  at  the 
chance  of  sharing  her  knowledge  wrote  essays  of  abnormal  length, 
full  of  quaint  scraps  of  philosophy  and  obscure  quotations.  Oli- 
ver's right  to  the  essay  and  English  honors  had  never  been 
challenged :  he  resented  her  bitterly. 

She  had  been  three  terms  at  the  school  when  Michael  discov- 
ered her,  as  he  had  it.  Extracts  from  one  of  her  essays  were 
printed  in  the  school  magazine,  and  impressed  him  as  so  uncom- 
monly queer  that  at  the  next  meeting  of  the  Debating  Society  he 
sought  her  out  and  walked  with  her  to  her  rooms.  She  had  by 
this  time  given  up  the  daily  train  journey,  going  home  only  at  the 
week-ends.  He  reported  that  she  had  not  spoken  a  word  during 
the  whole  walk  except  to  thank  him  gravely  for  the  unnecessary 
trouble  he  had  taken.  But  I  daresay  Mick  was  entirely  unembar- 
rassed by  that.  Conversations  begun  by  him  soon  became  mono- 
logues delivered  to  a  helpless  or  fascinated  audience, 

10 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  17 

After  that  I  met  them  several  times,  walking  on  the  South  Cliff 
or  sitting  on  the  rocks  at  Cayton  Bay.  Mick  was  talking,  always 
talking,  with  wide  explanatory  gestures.  In  the  school  cap  and 
her  long  straight  coat,  Margaret  was  very  like  a  grave  beautiful 
boy.  She  listened  to  him  with  patient  interest,  her  brows  drawn 
down :  now  and  then  she  would  thrust  in  an  odd  apt  phrase,  but  at 
any  attempt  to  force  an  opinion  from  her  retired  into  an  un- 
happy silence. 

Michael  talked  as  water  falls.  He  had  —  has  still,  I  suppose  — 
the  most  restless  of  minds.  I  forget  how  many  thousand  angels 
can  stand  on  the  point  of  a  pin  in  the  inspired  reckoning  of  the 
old  schoolman,  but  Mick's  mind  invented  as  many  theories  on 
slenderer  bases  than  a  pin-point  of  fact.  He  was  five  years  old 
when  he  woke  me  one  night  to  tell  me  that  he  was  sure  there  was 
no  God.  Some  one  had  been  reading  us  travelers'  tales  of  the 
rareness  of  the  Thibetan  air,  and  Mick  had  reached  the  conclu- 
sion that  no  God  could  breathe  on  the  celestial  heights.  "  If  he  's 
alive  he  must  breathe.  If  he  's  not  alive,  he  's  only  a  great  lump. 
Who  's  afraid  of  a  lump?  Maybe  he  has  gills  like  a  fish."  He 
buried  his  face  in  the  pillow  to  smother  the  crowing  laugh  that 
always  betrayed  him  to  wakeful  adults.  I  was  a  year  older  than 
he,  and  I  kicked  him  for  blasphemy,  but  his  vision  of  a  finny 
God  stayed  with  me  for  weeks.  I  woke  crying  with  terror  from  a 
dream  of  a  clammy  cod-faced  deity,  intolerably  slimy  and  beastly, 
and  in  my  incoherent  relief  almost  betrayed  Mick's  depravity. 

Later,  in  our  school  days,  I  reminded  him  of  the  episode.  He 
laughed  and  said,  "  Well,  even  the  Greeks  had  the  sense  to  put 
their  gods  on  a  habitable  Olympus,  though  if  you  were  to  believe 
everything  Greek  scholars  told  you  about  them,  they  were  the 
most  imbecile  race  that  ever  achieved  an  undeserved  immor- 
tality." This  was  just  after  old  Silcox  had  been  trying  to  per- 
suade us  that  Greek  actors  wore  masks  because  the  audience  would 
not  otherwise  have  distinguished  hero  and  villain. 

We  had  very  few  books,  and  Mick's  ideas,  common  cant  enough 
among  the  rag-tag  and  bobtail  of  the  advanced,  were  incredibly 
audacious  to  our  thinking.  We  were  all  natural  skeptics,  but 
Mick  got  excited  about  his  skepticism  and  insisted  upon  threshing 
things  put  with  us.  We  sat  up  in  bed  and  discussed  the  existence 


18  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

of  God  until  our  eyes  were  heavy  and  we  fell  asleep  upon  our 
heresies.  I  can  see  now  Oliver  and  Michael,  flushed  and  earnest, 
scrawling  diagrams  on  the  kitchen  table  and  shifting  here  and 
there  among  them  a  piece  of  blotting  paper  soaked  in  ink.  The 
blotting  paper  stood  for  God:  they  were  trying  frantically  to  find 
a  place  for  him  in  the  universe  when  vengeance  fell  upon  them  for 
"  doing  geometry  "  on  the  white-scrubbed  deal. 

At  school,  all  Mick's  interest  was  absorbed  by  the  science  side. 
Long  before  we  had  read  Wells'  romances  his  mind  was  a  ferment 
of  such  fantastic  wayfarings.  He  began  a  tale  round  that  idea  of 
a  kink  in  space:  he  began  another  about  a  planet  so  placed  that  it 
acted  as  a  receiver  for  the  thought  waves  given  off  by  ours:  there 
were  to  be  official  receivers  and  one  of  them  was  to  kill  himself 
for  love  of  an  inaccessible  woman  whose  thoughts  he  had  sensed 
across  the  impassable  gulfs  of  the  ether.  He  began  a  play 
wherein  the  characters  talked  and  talked  and  were  racked  by  wild, 
inexplicable  joys  and  distresses  —  very  like  a  Dostoievsky  novel. 
At  one  time  he  was  burning  with  indignation  about  the  unspeak- 
able degradations  of  marriage.  He  became  incoherent  at  the  bare 
thought  of  monopolizing  the  lifetime  of  a  woman,  or  being  monop- 
olized. Love  was  a  godhead,  a  crying  flame,  a  passion  too  sacred 
for  the  vile  touch  of  dogma.  Later  still,  he  discovered  eugenics, 
and  thrust  the  theory  at  us  until  we  were  heartily  sick  of  it,  and 
Oliver  said  it  was  a  pity  the  ideas  had  n't  been  enforced  in  time 
to  prevent  Mick. 

He  was,  of  course,  a  socialist,  and  of  the  oldest  and  most  vio- 
lent order.  His  tenebrous  enthusiasms  drove  the  rest  of  us  into 
arid  wastes  of  Fabianism.  But  long  before  this  we  were  playing 
on  the  way  to  school  a  game  called  Bloody  Revolution,  in  which 
we  stormed  barricades,  dodged  and  ran  through  withering  fire, 
and  finally,  at  the  top  of  the  school  slope,  hailed  victory  and  the 
triumph  of  the  proletariat.  We  dreamed  of  cringing  Privy  Coun- 
cillors and  three  heroic,  boyish  figures  who  stood  on  the  steps  of 
the  Town  Hall  and  announced  the  new  order  to  a  delirious  multi- 
tude. 

I  can  only  make  vague  guesses  at  the  chaos  that  Michael's  gar- 
rulous madness  wrought  in  Margaret's  brain.  For  a  time  there 
was  another  girl,  a  thin,  dusky  little  prude,  whom  he  walked  up 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  19 

and  down  the  sands  and  talked  to  with  a  certain  amount  of  cau- 
tion. I  suppose  his  caution  failed  him,  for  one  day  she  turned  and 
walked  away  alone  and  would  never  speak  to  him  thereafter. 
He  swore  that  he  did  not  know  how  he  had  offended,  but  I  daresay 
he  knew  quite  well.  After  that,  he  sought  Margaret  more  often 
and  poured  out  for  her  all  the  misty  enthusiasms  and  fantastic 
visions  which  his  own  mind  bred.  She  had  never  heard  of  the 
social  problem  but  she  accepted  his  socialism  unquestioning,  and 
even,  pale  from  sheer  nervousness,  defended  him  in  debate.  So- 
cialism was  vastly  unpopular  in  the  school  and  her  courage  sur- 
prised us,  though  we  refrained  from  praising  her  to  her  face.  In- 
deed, Mick  gave  us  little  chance  to  say  anything  to  her  face. 

I  caeie  upon  them  once,  standing  at  the  top  of  the  school  slope, 
and  caught  the  words  "  free  love  "  and  "  degradation  "  in  Mick's 
rapid  eager  voice.  Afterwards  I  remonstrated  with  him.  He  was 
talking  about  her. 

"  You  know,  Joy,"  he  said,  "  she 's  the  queerest  kid.  She  knows 
a  devil  of  a  lot  about  all  sorts  of  things,  but  about  Life  she  does  n't 
know  as  much  as  a  babe  of  five." 

"Then  you  ought  to  be  more  careful  what  you  talk  to  her 
about,"  I  told  him.  "  I  heard  you  talking  about  free  love  this 
morning.  What  sort  of  an  effect  do  you  suppose  that  '11  have  on 
the  virgin  brain?  " 

"  Well,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  shout  of  amusement,  "  do  you 
know  what  she  said  to  me  this  morning  after  I  had  been  holding 
forth  for  half  an  hour?  She  said,  '  If  free  love  is  the  wonderful 
deathless  feeling  you  say  it  is,  what  is  its  difference  from  maf- 
riage  except  a  few  words  and  a  piece  of  official  paper,  which  you 
say  doesn't  count  for  anything  anyway?'  Oh,  she's  quick,  I 
tell  you." 

Oliver  looked  up  from  his  books. 

"  She  probably  does  n't  take  in  half  of  what  you  say,  but  she  's 
sharp  enough  to  pretend  she  does  to  please  you." 

Mick  thought. 

"  No,"  he  said  slowly,  "  she  takes  it  in  all  right.  She  does  n't 
know  anything  but  books.  Maybe  Joy  's  right  —  it  ain't  wise  to 

fill  her  up  with  all  these "  he  hesitated  — "  speculations,"  he 

finished  firmly. 


20  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

Some  time  later  he  got  up  to  look  for  a  book  and  said  over  his 
shoulder,  "  I  should  n't  be  surprised  at  anything  that  girl  became. 
One  of  these  days  she 's  going  to  be  that  self-assured  and  critical 
you  wouldn't  know  her.  She  has  flashes  of  it  now.  She's  just 
listening.  Taking  things  in.  Sort  of  testing  'em  in  her  mind. 
She  's  discovered  that  she  don't  know  anything  worth  knowing. 
And  her  mind  doesn't  seem  to  be  full  of  conventional  ruts  like 
most  folks'  minds." 

Oliver  was  heavily  sarcastic. 

"  Soul  development,  is  it?     I  'm  sorry  for  the  girl." 

In  the  scuffle  that  followed  a  chair  was  broken.  Souls  and  free 
love  and  other  trivial  things  were  forgotten  in  a  common  distress. 

After  a  year  and  a  half  at  school  Margaret  went  to  one  of  the 
northern  Universities.  Michael  and  I  were  to  have  gone  to 
London  the  same  year,  but  there  was  no  money  forthcoming  and 
we  stayed  on  at  school.  Thus  it  came  about  that  Margaret  had 
taken  her  degree  —  a  brilliant  first  —  while  we  were  only  finish- 
ing our  second  year.  She  wrote  several  letters  to  Mick,  from 
which  he  read  extracts  in  support  of  his  belief  in  her  spiritual 
progress.  They  were  uncommon  letters,  more  the  sort  of  thing 
one  would  have  expected  from  a  clever  boy  —  with  flashes  of  wit, 
and  quick  penetrative  judgments  on  men  and  thoughts.  Clearly, 
Margaret  was  coming  on. 


CHAPTER  V 

MICHAEL  chafed  miserably  during  our  last  year  at  school. 
He  looked  forward  to  London  with  a  longing  that  became 
almost  a  fever  in  the  week  before  we  went.  He  spent  his  days  and 
the  greater  part  of  his  nights  on  the  cliffs,  and  drove  my  mother  to 
despair  by  refusing  to  make  any  preparation  for  going. 

"  Oh,  put  something  in  a  box,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  care.  Joy, 
you  do  h.  I  tell  you  I  can't  be  bothered." 

My  mother's  own  patience  was  wearing  thin  under  the  strain 
of  getting  together  a  decent  sufficiency  of  clothes,  and  squeezing 
pocket-money  from  empty  purses. 

"  Be  quiet  with  your  something  in  a  box,"  she  said  hotly. 
"  Another  week  of  this,  and  I  '11  be  the  something  in  a  box,  and 
God  knows  I  'd  be  glad  to  rest  in  a  quiet  grave  away  from  the  lot 
of  ye." 

We  went  out  and  walked  along  the  sands  past  the  chiaroscuro 
of  black  cliffs,  vivid,  flitting  girls,  and  red-striped  mummers  danc- 
ing on  white  boards.  We  pushed  past  fat  men  quivering  in  their 
bathing-dress  and  lean  men  sticking  starkly  out  of  theirs.  Poor 
Punch,  disinherited  and  forlorn,  strutted  madly  on  his  mock  stage. 
We  reached  the  corner  of  the  cliffs  and  walked  into  a  world  sud- 
denly become  round  and  silent,  bounded  by  cliffs  hunched  drows- 
ily below  the  hazy  spaces  of  the  sky.  The  sleek  sea,  withdrawn 
beyond  flat  rocks,  stirred  through  all  the  little  pools  across  our 
way. 

Mick  lay  face  downwards  on  the  warm  sand.  He  was  silent  for 
so  long  that  I  thought  he  had  gone  to  sleep,  when  he  rolled  over  on 
his  back  and  sat  up. 

"  I  wonder  what  we  '11  be  thinking  next  summer,"  he  said. 
"  Sometimes  when  I  think  about  London  I  feel  as  if  I  were  hang- 
ing over  a  void.  My  mind  won't  fill  it  up  for  me.  I  feel  empty 
and  used-up." 

"  Well,  it 's  your  own  fault,"  I  answered.  "  You  Ve  gone  on 

21 


22  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

about  it  until  you  think  London  will  fall  down  as  you  approach, 
or  else  vanish." 

"That's  just  what  I  do  feel.  That  it  will  vanish.  Turn  out 
as  unreal  as  all  this." 

"  I  don't  see  anything  unreal  about  this,"  I  said  carelessly. 

"  No,  of  course  you  don't.  There  's  nothing  unreal  for  you  in  a 
world  you  can  paint  —  or  try  to  paint.  But  I  feel  sometimes  — 
I  've  felt  for  months,  as  if  sea  and  cliffs  and  white  houses  were  a 
kind  of  illusion,  a  colored  shadow  thrown  by  something  lurking 
behind  them.  The  shadow  might  vanish,  and  leave  you  looking 
at  —  well,  what  would  you  be  looking  at?  It  might  be  something 
malignant  or  beastly,  or  there  might  be  nothing  there  at  all." 

Mick's  sense  of  humor  sometimes  reached  very  near  the  gro- 
tesque, and  sometimes  fell  abruptly  into  some  hole  in  his  con- 
sciousness and  vanished  out  of  sight.  During  these  lapses  his 
cosmic  imagination  galloped  with  him  through  a  nightmare  of 
gloom  and  foreboding.  He  saw  himself  quite  seriously  as  a  de- 
fiant atom  in  a  universe  that  rolled  menacingly  over  his  head. 
At  these  times  he  was  a  perfectly  impossible  companion.  He 
sat  huddled  in  a  chair,  dropping  from  despair  to  despair,  until 
the  room  was  a  charnel-house  of  murdered  hopes.  Consolation 
was  useless  and  sarcasm  unworthy. 

We  felt,  of  course,  that  he  was  deliberately  posing  and  postur- 
ing in  his  mind.  I  do  not  now  believe  that  he  was,  not  any  more 
than  we  all  are,  strutting  about  in  our  secret  thoughts,  comforting 
ourselves  for  the  dread  loneliness  of  man  in  a  world  of  men. 

There  may  have  been  some  congenital  kink  in  his  mind:  my 
grandfather  was  given  to  fits  of  depression,  during  one  of  which 
he  went  out  and  killed  all  his  cattle  and  every  living  thing  on  the 
farm,  while  my  grandmother  and  the  hired  man  cowered  in  the 
kitchen.  Afterwards  he  locked  himself  in  the  dairy  with  a  loaded 
gun  and  held  off  all  attempts  at  capture  until  the  third  day,  when 
he  shot  himself  through  the  head.  His  son  never  rallied  the  fam- 
ily fortunes  after  this  disastrous  blow. 

There  was  yet  another  Michael  Hearne,  who  took  to  his  bed 
in  the  thirty-second  year  of  his  life  and  stayed  there  forty  years 
until  his  death.  During  the  whole  of  this  tune  he  did  not  speak 
a  word  after  once  explaining  that  he  did  it  to  escape  from  the 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  23 

stupidity  of  a  farmer's  life  and  the  perpetual  sight  and  sound  of 
his  wife,  of  whom  he  was  now  tired.  In  appearance  Mick  is  very 
like  this  amiable  lunatic.  They  have  the  same  broad  foreheads, 
bright  hazel  eyes,  and  general  quaintness  of  feature.  I  wondered 
what  Mick  would  have  done,  had  he  been  condemned  to  live  his 
life  on  a  desolate  moor  farm,  sleeping,  eating,  working,  and  get- 
ting children  till  he  died. 

He  sat  now,  with  his  hands  clasped  round  his  knees  and  his  face 
set  in  the  mask  of  a  dejected  imp.  I  knew  that  he  was  on  the  bor- 
derland of  a  lapse,  and  I  tried  to  ward  it  off. 

"  I  know  you  all  think  I  'm  going  to  do  well,"  he  said.  "  The 
mother  expects  it.  Old  Silcox  expects  it.  He  said,  '  You  are  the 
best  scientist  the  school  has  turned  out :  we  look  to  you  to  do  great 
things.'  The  fatuous  old  bladder!  What  right  has  he,  anyway, 
to  expect  me  to  do  great  things?  People  have  no  right  to  expect 
things  from  others.  Why  can't  they  let  each  other  alone  —  run- 
ning round  crying,  '  Let  me  love  you.  Let  me  admire  you.  Do 
something  fine  so  that  we  can  all  stand  round  and  be  uplifted  and 
stirred.'- 

"  Pity  the  poor  Great  Man,"  I  said. 

"  He  ought  to  be  pitied.  Swarmed  on  by  all  the  flabby  vam- 
pires who  want  to  have  their  souls  tickled  and  their  bowels 
churned  up.  Until,  if  he  takes  any  notice  of  them,  he  's  exhausted 
and  done  for  and  has  to  grovel  in  himself  and  do  his  little  tricks 
over  again  in  a  false  frenzy  of  inspiration  until  he  dies.  .  .  .  I  'm 
sick  to  death  of  having  a  career  dangled  before  me.  How  can  I 
tell  what  things  will  be  like  when  we  get  to  London?  I  may  fail. 
I  may  not  have  the  scientific  trick.  I  may  not  want  to  succeed." 

"  Well,  if  you  don't,  it  will  be  your  own  fault,"  I  told  him 
rather  sharply.  "  You  're  being  sent  to  college  to  give  you  a 
chance  you  Ve  wanted  ever  since  you  've  wanted  anything." 

He  rubbed  his  head  until  his  hair  stood  up  in  stricken  wisps. 

"  You  would  be  perfectly  happy  if  you  could  just  be  left  alone 
with  the  earth  and  the  colors  thereof.  Artists  are  like  that,  I 
suppose."  He  made  one  of  his  unexpected  swoops.  "  What  have 
they  ever  done  to  make  the  world  fit  for  other  folk  to  live  in?  " 

"You  have  no  right  to  ask  art  to  do  good,"  I  said  rashly. 
"  It  is  a  good." 


24  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

"  What  do  you  mean,  a  good?  "  Mick  jeered.  "  Is  it  good  to 
eat  or  good  to  look  at?  There  can  only  be  one  good,  one  su- 
preme meaning  that  makes  all  this  —  mess  —  worth  while,  or 
else  makes  it  an  indecent  nightmare.  Life  for  Art's  sake  —  I 
read  that  in  a  book.  It  would  be  just  impertinent  if  it  were  not 
so  silly.  I  don't  see  myself  that  art  has  anything  to  do  with  life, 
except  the  accident  that  most  artists  can  only  stick  dead  slabs  of 
it  on  to  their  canvas." 

"  It 's  too  damned  hot  to  argue  with  you,"  I  said.  "  Besides, 
I  don't  see  how  all  this  bears  on  you  and  your  inability  to  stick 
to  your  last.  Must  you  have  all  the  world  tidied  up,  with  smiling 
morning  face,  before  you  can  get  down  to  the  work  you  've  trained 
for?  " 

"  Don't  be  an  ass,  Joy,"  he  said.  "  That 's  not  what  I  'm  get- 
ting at.  Only,  for  pity's  sake,  persuade  them  at  home  to  shut 
up  about  my  chances  and  my  career.  It  makes  me  sick." 

He  stood  up.  His  hands  were  full  of  fine  warm  sand.  He  let 
it  trickle  slowly  between  his  fingers. 

"  I  might  be  poured  out  like  that,"  he  said,  with  a  quick  smile, 
**  and  to  as  much  purpose." 

We  walked  back  along  the  sands.  I  had  an  irrational  sense 
that  I  owed  Mick  an  apology. 

"  I  'm  sorry  if  I  seemed  unsympathetic,"  I  began.  "  I  know  that 
if  I  were  free  to  do  as  I  pleased,  I  'd  waste  my  life  pretending 
there  is  no  muddle  and  no  misery.  If  I  were  rich  I  should  prob- 
ably have  spent  my  youth  at  art  schools,  or  tearing  round  Paris 
and  Italy,  licking  the  varnish  off  great  men's  pictures,  and  explain- 
ing why  my  own  were  greater  than  they  looked.  But  there  the 
disorder  is  —  and  I  suppose  one  ought  to  take  a  hand  at  clearing 
it  up." 

Mick  was  not  listening.  A  girl,  leaning  over  the  Spa  wall,  had 
smiled  down  at  him,  an  impudent,  challenging  beauty  with  bared 
breast  and  dusky  hair.  He  set  off  at  a  great  rate  for  the  Spa  gates. 


IT  was  growing  dark  when  we  reached  London.  Scattered  sub- 
urbs and  fields  flowed  past  the  train,  a  limpid,  colorless  stream. 
Houses  thickened  and  piled  upon  each  other.  On  the  elfin  green 
of  the  sky,  roofs,  and  spires  and  squat  gasometers  traced  an  intri- 
cate pattern  of  thrusting  lines  and  flat  shadows.  Narrow  streets 
rushed 'a  way  from  the  train  and  poured  themselves  into  the  teem- 
ing obscurity.  The  town  turned  a  frowsy  back  to  the  railway  line, 
with  gaping  seams  of  alleys  and  exhausted,  dragging  limbs. 

We  felt  very  small  and  thin  in  the  rush  of  King's  Cross.  Mick 
was  for  taking  a  taxi  to  the  rooms  we  had  engaged,  but  we  were 
afraid  to  spend  so  much  money,  and  in  the  end  left  our  boxes 
in  the  cloakroom,  and  stepped  out  with  our  bags  into  the  confused 
brilliance  of  the  streets.  We  found  our  way  to  the  Strand.  The 
wide  pavements,  splashed  with  light,  and  fantastic  shadows,  ex- 
cited me.  I  could  have  shouted  along  the  streets.  I  wanted  to 
open  my  arms  and  gather  the  rushing  life  to  me,  abandon  myself 
to  it,  let  it  sweep  through  me. 

We  found  the  entrance  to  King's  and  walked  shyly  round  the 
quadrangle.  "  It  hardly  seems  to  be  in  the  same  world  as  all 
that,"  Mick  said,  jerking  his  head  towards  the  Strand. 

We  came  out  and  wandered  east.  Fleet  Street  was  a  magic 
name.  We  babbled  of  dead  men  and  peered  into  the  faces  of 
the  passers-by  as  we  might  have  peered  at  the  citizens  of  a  city 
in  the  moon.  At  the  foot  of  Ludgate  Hill  we  summoned  up  cour- 
age to  ask  directions,  and  a  little  while  later  got  wearily  into  a 
train  at  St.  Paul's.  We  were  so  tired  that  we  crossed  the  river 
without  seeing  it,  and  walked  away  from  Herne  Hill  station  like 
men  in  a  trance.  We  tried  to  tell  each  other  what  we  thought  of 
London,  but  our  words  were  spiritless. 

"  It  is  different,"  Mick  kept  saying,  "  it 's  not  as  I  thought  it 
would  be.  It 's  bigger  and  finer  —  and  worse." 

25 


CHAPTER  VII 

MICHAEL  and  I  were  up  for  a  year  before  the  others  came. 
We  were  poorer  than  usual  and  our  rooms  were  greasy  and 
detestable.  Mick  made  friends,  as  he  always  does,  and  betook 
himself  to  the  cheerful  flat  shared  by  two  school  teachers.  They 
read  "  The  New  Age  "  to  him  and  tried  to  poison  him  with  camp 
coffee.  One  of  them  had  rather  pretty  hair:  she  used  to  take  it 
down  for  him  to  feel  as  she  read,  thus  mingling,  with  a  nice 
judgment,  intellectual  and  sensuous  titillations. 

Accident  or  perversity  led  me  for  a  time  into  a  college  set  whose 
habits  I  did  not  like  and  could  not  afford.  It  included  two  or 
three  fine-featured  Jews  who  spent  their  money  with  an  air  con- 
temptuously tolerant  of  Gentile  whims.  The  rest  of  us  rode  in 
their  cars,  drank  their  wine,  and  hit  them  boisterously  between  the 
shoulder  blades  in  mute  reminder  that  we  bore  them  no  ill-will  for 
the  dark  ages  when  they  incited  bur  fathers  to  persecute  them. 

Michael  watched  my  progress  among  the  Sons  of  Belial  with  an 
amusement  that  ignored  my  constant  ill-temper.  I  ran  into  debt, 
neglected  my  work,  and  at  the  end  of  a  month  regarded  my  com- 
panions with  an  indiscriminate  loathing.  I  think  they  drank  as  a 
kind  of  mental  exercise:  certainly  I  never  knew  them  to  allow  their 
minds  any  other.  Such  of  them  as  came  from  the  shire  aristocra- 
cies held  social  and  ethical  views  that  I  can  only  explain  on  the 
theory  that  the  old  county  families  are  succumbing  to  a  slow  form 
of  insanity  induced  by  in-breeding. 

They  talked  of  their  wretched  adventures  into  Piccadilly  with  a 
determined,  heavy  cynicism.  I  have  to  own  that  it  intimidated  me 
into  concealing  my  innocence  of  like  adventures. 

It  is  easy  to  exaggerate  their  viciousness.  Indeed,  I  do  not 
believe  them  to  have  been  vicious  at  all  in  the  real  sense  of  the 
word.  It  was  just  that  their  code  permitted  them  any  self-indulg- 
ence so  long  as  they  did  not  transgress  certain  well-defined  rules  of 
breeding.  They  believed  in  the  existence  of  what  some  of  them 

26 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  27 

did  actually  call  pure  women  —  of  their  own  class.  And  these 
they  held  inviolate,  partly,  I  suppose,  because  of  the  need  to  keep 
up  the  supply  of  desirable  wives.  Women  below  their  class  were 
fair  game.  If  a  pretty  shop-girl  liked  to  be  a  fool,  why  should 
one  not  profit  by  her  folly,  doubtless  arranged  for  by  a  God  who 
understood  the  need  for  pretty  fools? 

I  believe  that  they  regarded  the  lower  classes  in  general  as  exist- 
ing for  their  support  and  convenience.  They  did  not,  of  course, 
think  out  any  deliberate  philosophy  of  life:  they  did  not  think  at 
all.  But  their  lives  were  based  on  some  such  unconscious  mental 
attitude,  bred  and  fostered  in  them  from  their  youth  up.  Some 
of  them  —  Louis  Sarscon  for  one  —  were  destined  for  the  higher 
civil  service,  and  there  they  will  carry  on  a  complicated  system 
of  misgovernment  with  a  faith  in  its  worth  and  permanence  that 
would  be  pitiful  were  it  not  so  arrogant  and  expensively  futile. 

We  met  most  often  to  drink  in  Sarscon's  rooms.  Like  every- 
thing he  owned,  they  toppled  over  the  far  side  of  comfort  into 
ostentation.  There  was  a  full-sized  grand,  and  three  huge  ches- 
terfields, too  fat  and  too  low  for  real  use.  I  grumbled  at  the  heat 
of  the  room. 

"  'S  Louis'  fault,"  some  one  said.  "  It 's  warm  round  Jerusa- 
lem, you  know." 

Louis  Sarscon  looked  calmly  at  the  speaker. 

"  Fairly  hopeless  sort  of  a  fool,  aren't  you?  "  he  said. 

"  Fool,  is  it?  "  Hervey  spluttered.  "  Well  if  I  am,  you  're  a 
—  Jew." 

"  Hervey  's  beastly  drunk.  Hervey,  you  ought  to  get  your  nurse 
to  put  you  to  bed." 

Hervey  became  outrageous,  and  the  blood  began  to  show  under 
Sarscon's  pale  skin. 

"  If  I  ever  feel  inclined  to  wish  I  were  not  a  Jew,"  he  said,  "  I 
have  only  to  look  round  at  my  Christian  friends." 

"  The  distinction  is  n't  a  true  one,"  I  interrupted,  "  for  your 
friends  are  n't  Christians  and  you  're  not  a  Jew."  My  mind  ap- 
peared to  me  amazingly  lucid :  I  wanted  to  take  half-a-dozen  bril- 
liant lines  of  argument  and  crush  him  once  and  for  all.  "  A  Jew 
has  a  religion  and  the  features  and  manners  of  an  ancient  race. 
You  have  no  religion  and  you  pride  yourself  on  possessing  the 


23  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

features  and  bearing  of  the  country  where  you  happened  to  be 
born.  Why,  you  have  n't  even  a  nationality.  You  don't  want  to 
go  back  to  Zion:  you  only  want  Palestine  for  the  others  to  go 
there." 

"Well,"  he  said  coolly,  "  where 'd  you  be  without  us?  You 
used  to  rob  and  torture  us.  Now  we  rule  you.  We  control  more 
than  half  the  wealth  of  the  world.  We  sway  nations  —  conti- 
nents." 

"  Europe,"  I  said  thickly  — "  Europe  has  the  Jews  she  deserves." 

His  self-control  snapped:  he  flung  himself  towards  me,  and  I 
stood  laughing  stupidly  at  his  waving  arms  as  he  struggled  in 
the  grasp  of  a  muscular  engineering  student. 

Hervey  drunk  was  at  least  as  humorous  as  a  modern  comedy 
or  as  his  father  stalking  to  bed  in  a  dignified  intoxication  after  a 
day  spent  in  the  trial  of  drunkards  and  poachers.  Somewhere 
about  the  fifth  glass  he  thought  he  was  a  boy  scout  and  took  cover 
under  the  rug.  He  wriggled  with  infinite  care  round  the  legs  of 
the  grand,  and  pounced,  squealing,  upon  Sarscon.  Louis  kicked 
him  viciously.  Shouting  with  rage,  Hervey  picked  up  the  Jew, 
staggered  away  into  the  bathroom,  and  there  held  him  in  the  bath 
with  both  taps  running  until  he  was  soaked  through.  We  laughed 
so  much  that  we  could  not  pull  Hervey  off  him.  When  at  last 
he  was  free  he  stood  tearing  at  his  sodden  clothes,  looking  more 
like  a  Jew  than  I  had  ever  seen  him.  The  swaying  electric  globes 
over  the  bath  took  Hervey's  attention :  he  watched  them  gravely  for 
a  while  and  then,  lifting  his  hand,  deliberately  smashed  one  after 
the  other.  Then  he  gathered  up  his  hat  and  coat  and  went  with 
the  bearing  of  the  Gentile  conqueror.  We  followed,  still  laugh- 
ing weakly,  through  the  deserted  streets  and  squares  between  the 
British  Museum  and  Euston  Road.  In  King's  Cross  station  he 
gave  twopence  to  every  porter  and  left  a  shilling  with  his  card  for 
the  station-master.  Outside  on  the  pavement  he  sat  down  and 
cried  because,  he  said,  I  was  such  an  awful  liar.  I  do  not  re- 
member how  we  got  him  away,  or  how  I  reached  home. 

The  thought  of  my  lost  control  annoyed  me  intensely  in  the 
morning.  When  Englishmen  get  drunk  they  make  such  fatuous 
and  puerile  fools  of  themselves.  Two  or  three  such  scenes  sick- 
ened me  of  the  whole  crowd,  and  I  should  have  broken  with  them 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  29 

sooner  than  I  did  had  it  not  been  for  Mick's  ironical  prophecies 
of  disaster. 

An  evening  in  March  put  an  end  to  my  exalted  friendships  with- 
out much  regret  on  either  side.  I  had  met  Sarscon  and  half-a- 
dozen  others  hurrying  across  the  quad.  "  Come  along,  J.  J.," 
Louis  called,  "  we  're  tearing  it  to-night."  We  called  in  at  three 
or  four  places  and  we  were  none  of  us  quite  sober  when  Hervey 
said  — "  I  know  a  house  where  they  '11  be  glad  to  see  us.  What 
you  say?  "  Louis  patted  him  on  the  head.  "  Good  boy,"  he  said. 
"  Lead  on."  I  did  not  know  London  then,  and  I  am  not  sure 
where  the  house  was.  We  certainly  stumbled  along  Gower  Street 
and  made  two  or  three  turnings  before  we  stopped  in  front  of  a 
tall  house  in  a  darkened  side-street.  Hervey  knocked  at  the  door. 
He  waited  "a  bit  and  knocked  again.  It  opened  barely  half-way. 
Hervey  thrust  his  head  through  the  opening.  "  Let  us  in,  Anna 
Mary,"  he  said.  "  We  Ve  come  to  call." 

The  door  was  flung  wide  and  we  trooped  in.  Anna  Mary  was 
old  and  incredibly  active.  She  swirled  and  chuckled  before  us 
into  a  large  empty  room  on  the  first  floor.  There  was  a  slam- 
ming of  doors  and  a  rustle  of  dresses  on  the  stairs.  Five  or  six 
girls  ran  into  the  room  and  one  of  them  threw  her  arms  round 
Hervey.  "Oh,  Dickie  boy,"  she  cried,  "where  have  you  been? 
It 's  ages  since  you  kissed  your  little  Gracie." 

It  was  suddenly  clear  to  me  that  I  did  not  want  to  be  there.  I 
thought  of  the  scene  there  would  be  if  I  tried  to  get  away,  the 
oaths  and  the  screeched  protests.  While  I  thought  of  escape  the 
others  had  finished  drinking  and  got  themselves  out  of  the  room. 
I  was  left  with  the  old  woman.  She  looked  at  me  and  began  a 
long  soothing  speech.  It  was  a  moment  or  two  before  I  caught 
the  drift  of  it.  She  had  got  into  her  head  that  I  wanted  one  of  the 
girls  who  had  gone.  She  was  trying  to  pacify  me  for  having  to 
wait  my  turn.  I  made  her  understand  somehow  that  I  did  not 
want  any  of  them.  I  would  wait  for  the  others  to  come  down  — 
oh  yes,  I  would  wait.  She  regarded  me  with  half-roused  sus- 
picions that  vanished  when  she  saw  I  did  not  mean  to  leave  the 
house  before  the  rest.  Evidently  I  was  annoyed  at  having  missed 
my  choice.  She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  prepared  to  be  agree- 
able. I  have  a  confused  memory  of  her  rambling  talk:  she  told 


30  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

me  about  her  girls  and  her  adventures  with  the  police.  I  began 
to  be  interested :  one  by  one  the  others  came  down ;  no  one  seemed 
to  realize  that  I  had  been  there  all  the  time,  and  we  left  with  much 
caution  and  subdued  laughter. 

It  must  have  been  five  o'clock  before  I  reached  home.  A  great 
arc  of  saffron  light,  barred  and  rimmed  by  drifting  clouds, 
gleamed  in  the  east.  I  had  lost  my  latchkey  and  I  groped  for 
small  stones  to  throw  through  the  open  window  of  Mick's  room. 
He  looked  out  at  me  for  a  minute  and  then  came  stumbling 
down  to  open  the  door.  "  Dejected  philosopher,"  he  observed, 
"  worn  in  studying  the  nature  of  Sin." 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,"  I  said  irritably,  "  I  'm  through  with  it,  I 
tell  you." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AT  the  end  of  our  first  year  Oliver  joined  us.  We  moved  into 
better  rooms  and  took  in  with  us  another  second  year  man. 
Anthony  Calvert  had  attracted  us  first  by  his  dry  wit  in  debate. 
He  was  a  Yorkshireman  like  ourselves  —  not  one  of  your  hybrids 
.from  the  West  Riding  —  but  a  Yorkshireman  from  the  North 
Riding^dales,  with  an  uncommon  gift  for  apt  phrases.  He  had  no 
uncouth  convictions,  but  professed  himself  amiably  a  Guild  So- 
cialist, and  read  in  the  literature  of  the  Middle  Ages  for  pleasure. 
His  face  and  his  silences  belied  him.  He  looked  a  pleasant  type 
of  the  English  intelligentsia:  he  was  in  truth  a  quick,  subtle 
thinker,  something  of  a  scholar  and  a  hardy  lover  of  moors  and 
ploughed  earth.  He  had  a  truly  magnificent  collection  of  folk- 
songs, to  which  he  wrote  and  played  his  own  accompaniments,  get- 
ting out  of  that  unsatisfactory  instrument  the  piano,  some  of  the 
poignant  qualities  of  the  violin. 

Anthony  had  been  with  us  just  a  week  when  Mick  had  one  of 
Margaret's  rare  letters.  He  took  it  from  the  postman  on  the  door- 
step and  did  not  open  it  until  we  were  half-way  down  Denmark 
Hill.  He  turned  the  first  page  and  stopped  in  the  middle  of 
the  road.  "  I  'm  damned,"  he  said.  "  Listen  to  this." 

He  read  us  the  dry,  casual  sentence  in  which  Margaret  told 
her  engagement  to  an  engineering  student.  Mick  waved  the  let- 
ter in  our  faces.  "  I  'm  enraged,"  he  said.  "  I  'm  thoroughly  an- 
noyed. What  right  has  any  man  to  come  thrusting  in  alienating 
Margaret's  young  affections?  She's  done  for!  She's  in  love. 
She  '11  never  do  another  stroke  of  work." 

Oliver  stood  and  laughed  at  him.  "You'll  have  to  listen  to 
dreamy  raptures.  She  '11  empty  bucketsfull  of  female  psychol- 
ogy on  you.  Serve  you  damn  well  right.  Trafficking  in  souls!  " 

He  flung  back  his  head  and  laughed  so  loudly  that  a  decent  old 
gentleman  of  the  stockbroker  sort  looked  at  him  as  if  he  were 

an  open  drain. 

31 


32  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

But  although  Mick  wrote  recklessly  for  details  of  the  tragedy  he 
got  neither  raptures  nor  psychology.  Margaret  wrote — "You 
ask  for  details.  Any  I  could  give  would  deservedly  bore  you. 
I  hope  it  will  not  be  long  before  you  meet  Keith.  We  have 
been  friends  too  long  —  you  and  I  —  for  me  to  pretend  indiffer- 
ence to  your  opinion  of  him." 

After  this  letter  she  did  not  write  again  for  nearly  a  year. 

Long  afterwards,  when  pretenses  and  reservations  were  no 
longer  possible  between  us,  Margaret  told  me  the  story  of  that 
year.  I  might  have  spared  her  the  telling.  She  told  me  nothing 
that  I  had  not  guessed,  but  the  things  had  to  be  said  between  us. 

We  thought  that  they  had.  To  tell  the  truth,  a  dozen  words 
had  been  ample.  We  were  too  young  to  have  that  much  wit: 
nothing  would  do  for  us  but  that  we  must  plunge  into  one  of  those 
dreadful  discussions  wherein  youth  endeavors  to  discover  its  soul 
and  is  ever  after  heartily  ashamed  of  its  nakedness. 

"  It  is  absurd  to  blame  Mick  for  the  muddle  I  have  made  of 
things,"  Margaret  said.  "  He  did  have  an  influence  on  me.  I 
had  never  heard  any  one  talk  as  he  did.  His  ideas  were  new  and 
amazing.  I  had  nothing  to  measure  them  by.  You  know  what 
sort  of  a  childhood  I  had,  shut  off  from  other  children.  Why, 
I  never  left  that  great  house  on  the  moor  edge  until  I  insisted 
upon  coming  to  school.  Eighteen  months  at  school,  and  then 
college.  Think  for  yourself  what  a  chaos  of  impressions  and 
ideas  my  mind  must  have  been.  I  tried  to  hide  it.  I  wanted  to 
get  things  straight.  Then  I  met  Keith.  I  liked  him  because  he 
reminded  me  of  Mick.  When  I  knew  him  better,  I  was  aston- 
ished to  find  him  talking  the  same  sort  of  misty  nonsense.  It 
was  as  if  I  had  stumbled  on  a  language  I  knew  in  a  country  of 
strangers.  We  sought  each  other  out."  She  hesitated.  "  I  sup- 
pose there  is  something  fine  about  a  youthful  mating.  I  thought 
so  then." 

She  paused  again.  "There  was  a  kind  of  ferment  in  my 
thoughts  —  started  somehow  by  Mick,  and  the  new  crowded  life. 
Oh,"  she  cried  suddenly,  "  you  know  the  sort  of  creature  a  sex 
idealist  is.  Wallowing  .  .  ." 

"Margaret!" 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  33 

"  It 's  true."  Her  voice  hardened.  "  You  know  that  it 's  true. 
I  don't  idealize  you.  I  love  you :  I  'm  not  in  love.  Keith  was 
different.  There  was  a  kind  of  deliberate  fantasy  —  romance 
—  about  that.  It  was  fine  and  —  unreal.  Can  a  thing  be  fine 
and  unreal,  or  are  all  unreal  things  vile  at  bottom?  It  did  not 
seem  vile.  It  took  our  breath  with  its  beauty  then." 

A  curious  tender  smile  flickered  in  her  eyes.  "  You  must  n't 
think  that  Keith  took  advantage  of  me,  or  anything  so  stupid  and 
untrue  as  that." 

"  He  took  advantage  of  your  ignorant  enthusiasms,"  I  said. 

"  His  own  were  as  ignorant,"  she  answered  swiftly.  "  We  were 
both  y,ptmg:  we  talked  it  over  together.  We  talked  and  thought 
about  it  too  much.  I  don't  know  whose  fault  that  was.  You 
can  talk  yourself  into  anything.  .  .  .  We  could  n't,  in  the  nature 
of  things,  marry  for  years,  and  it  seemed  useless  and  wrong  to 
wait."  She  drew  her  brows  together.  "  The  moral  code  did  n't 
grip  us  at  all.  I  suppxase  that  for  many  young  people  it  is  losing 
its  grip.  Not  only  for  freaks.  There  was  nothing  particularly 
freakish  about  me.  And  Mick's  teaching  did  n't  really  influence 
me  much.  I  think  still  that  we  were  right.  There  is  something 
indecent,  to  my  mind,  about  the  spectacle  of  two  young  people 
clutching  futilely  at  each  other,  living  for  months  and  years  in 
a  kind  of  hot-house  of  exaggerated  passion,  until  they  have  been 
solemnly  legalized  to  take  their  passion  to  a  decent  marriage  bed." 
She  looked  at  me  with  a  half -mocking  defiance.  "  I  can't  put  it 
any  more  tactfully,  Joy,  or  I  would." 

I  laughed  a  little,  and  something  of  the  strain  was  gone  from 
her  voice  when  she  went  on. 

"  I  don't  admit  for  a  moment  that  we  were  wrong.  Only  it 
did  n't  work  out  right.  It  was  n't  love.  I  can't  tell  you  when  I 
found  that  I  was  beginning  to  live  up  to  Keith.  Pretenses  that 
were  involuntary  at  first  became  conscious  and  irksome.  I  hid 
things  from  him,  pretended  things  I  did  n't  feel.  The  life  I  lived 
with  him  was  full  of  suppressions  and  unhappy  failures.  We 
lived  a  furtive  sort  of  life.  Feelings  that  surprised  us  both  — 
irritations  —  flashes  of  hatred  —  kept  thrusting  up  through  the 
tenderness.  Keith  felt  it  too.  We  tried  desperately  hard  to  pre- 


34  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

tend  it  was  n't  so,  but  we  knew  .  .  .  And  all  the  time  there  was  a 
kind  of  pity  in  us  for  the  beauty  that  was  going.  I  feel  it 
now  .  .  ." 

I  watched  the  red  marks  fading  on  her  fingers  where  one  hand 
had  gripped  the  other.  "  Margaret,"  I  said,  and  moved  towards 
her.  But  she  held  herself  from  my  touch. 

"  Let  me  finish,  Joy,"  she  said.  "  It  is  hard  to  say  which  feel- 
ing was  most  real,  the  tenderness  or  the  ugly  irritations.  Keith 
often  thought  me  perverse.  He  tried  to  alter  me  in  little  ways. 
Even,  I  tried  to  alter  myself.  I  could  n't  do  it,  you  know.  My 
pretenses  came  clattering  down  upon  my  head.  The  strain  was 
too  great.  It  would  have  been  a  —  a  sort  of  temperamental  hari- 
kari."  She  stopped  and  looked  at  me  with  a  smile  that  twisted 
her  mouth.  "  Why  don't  you  laugh,  Joy?  " 

"  I  can't." 

She  thought  a  minute.  "  Our  differences  did  n't  matter  at  first, 
not  until  we  'd  got  past  the  little  delights  of  being  together,  the 
gentle,  intimate  things.  When  we  got  further  down,  to  the  things 
that  really  matter,  the  bedrock  of  personality,  there  were  hideous, 
gaping  differences.  We  had  to  draw  back  and  pretend  that  they 
were  not  there.  At  bottom,  Keith  is  a  creature  of  conventions. 
He  likes  to  think  what  the  rest  think.  His  adventure  into  the  ro- 
mantic began  to  feel  unstable  to  him.  He  wanted  it  to  end  com- 
fortably. Things  I  said  worried  him.  He  began  to  think  that 
a  legal  marriage  would  put  things  right.  He  complained  that  I 
was  a  pagan." 

"  So  you  are,"  I  interrupted.  "  Your  mind  is  pagan,  logical, 
loving  order  and  ordered  beauty." 

She  was  not  listening. 

I  opened  the  window  and  a  breeze  came  into  the  room.  She 
seemed  to  have  grown  suddenly  tired,  leaning  against  the  wall  in 
the  shadow  by  the  window.  I  stood  looking  at  the  outline  of 
her  throat  against  the  dark  curtains,  and  her  pale  averted  face. 
It  hurt  me  intolerably. 

"  That  is  just  how  things  are.  Keith  keeps  writing  of  marriage. 
We  have  no  one  to  consult.  My  uncle  would  n't  interfere  with  me 
in  a  thing  like  that.  Besides,  he  rather  likes  Keith."  She  turned 
to  me  with  a  swift,  fierce  movement.  "  I  am  sorry  for  Keith. 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  35 

Something  in  me  goes  on  loving  Keith.     I  can't  bear  to  hurt  him." 

"  You  can  hurt  me,"  I  said  hardly. 

"  You  can  take  care  of  yourself,"  she  answered,  and  turned  her 
head  to  look  at  me. 

I  took  a  step  towards  her.  "  Margaret,"  I  said,  and  again  stu- 
pidly — "  Margaret.  You  can't  treat  me  like  this.  Don't  you  see 
you  can't?  You  're  asking  the  impossible  of  me  —  of  yourself." 
My  self-control  broke.  I  knew  that  she  was  sore  and  wretched 
beyond  all  desire  or  thought  of  passion.  Her  whole  being  cried 
out  to  me  to  leave  her  alone,  but  I  took  her  in  my  arms  and  kissed 
her  white  face  and  held  her.  She  slipped  from  me.  Her  words 
were  arvvinstinctive  defense. 

"HaVen't  you  understood  yet?  "  she  whispered.  "You  don't 
want  me  —  Keith's  mistress." 

"What  do  I  care?  "  I  said.  "What  does  anything  matter  like 
that?  I  never  knew  Keith's  mistress.  It 's  you  I  want." 

I  talked  at  her.  I  tried  absurdly  to  wake  the  spirit  in  her.  I 
blustered.  And  all  the  time  she  stood  and  looked  at  me  with 
an  infinite  patience  for  my  unkind  folly.  When  I  fell  silent,  she 
stooped  and  kissed  my  hair  and  was  gone.  I  sat  on  while  the 
room  grew  cold,  and  the  wind  blew  the  ashes  on  the  hearth. 

Life  would  be  much  simpler  if  we  were  a  little  more  parsi- 
monious of  speech.  I  wish  I  could  blame  Ibsen  and  the  Russians 
for  the  habit  of  soul-dissection  that  is  spreading  a  gray  slime  over 
modern  conversation.  But  the  French  had  a  hand  in  that  too. 
The  old  saloon  and  coffee-house  talkers  did  things  better. 

We  avoided  each  other  for  several  days. 

We  took  ourselves  so  seriously.  Heaven  knows  where  our  sense 
of  humor  was  during  that  horrible  conversation.  Grinning  in 
some  distant  corner,  I  suppose.  What  solemn  mountebanks! 


CHAPTER  IX 

IV  THEN  Margaret  wrote  to  Michael  again  it  was  to  tell  him  that 
W  she  had  been  offered  a  research  scholarship  and  meant  to 
study  in  London.  We  held  a  conference  on  the  letter.  Michael 
was  anxious  to  have  her  share  our  rooms.  "  She  '11  monopolize 
the  best  chair  and  want  her  books  carrying  to  the  'bus,"  Oliver  re- 
marked viciously. 

We  discussed  the  question  from  our  various  points  of  view, 
and  then  sat  looking  at  each  other.  Anthony,  who  had  never  met 
Margaret,  poked  carefully  at  his  pipe  and  said — "What  you 
really  mean  is  that  there  '11  be  intellectual  flirtations  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing  —  H.  G.  Wells  in  real  life." 

"Margaret  isn't  like  that  and  neither  are  we,"  Mick  said 
shortly.  He  looked  at  me.  "What  do  you  say,  Joy?  " 

"  I  don't  mind,"  I  answered  slowly.  "  She  's  your  friend,  not 
mine.  I  never  really  knew  her.  I  daresay  it  '11  work  all  right." 

Margaret  was  traveling  in  Scotland  at  the  time,  and  Michael's 
letter  asking  her  to  share  our  rooms  was  not  forwarded.  We 
wondered  at  her  silence.  It  was  late  in  August  when  she  ap- 
peared in  Scarborough,  penitent  and  explanatory.  I  had  not  seen 
her  since  she  left  school  and  Mick  had  not  prepared  me  for  the 
change  in  her.  She  was  beautiful,  with  a  gravely  radiant  beauty 
like  the  dusk  in  summer.  A  serene  self-possession  had  replaced 
the  school-girl's  defiant  shyness.  She  was  so  light-hearted  withal : 
it  hurts  me  to  think  of  that  untouched  gaiety. 

She  had  not  made  up  her  mind  to  share  our  rooms.  I  think 
she  was  afraid  of  Oliver.  He  had  replied  to  some  remark  of  hers 
with  a  sarcastic  reminder  of  the  unwieldy,  endless  essays  that  she 
wrote  at  school.  She  flushed  and  did  not  answer  him.  After- 
wards, when  Mick  and  I  were  sitting  with  her  on  the  sands,  she 
said  slowly — "Are  you  sure  that  you  have  room  for  me  and 
want  me?  " 

"  Of  course  we  want  you,"  Mick  said.  "  The  question  is  —  do 
you  want  to  come?  " 

36 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  37 

"  I  'd  be  only  too  glad  to  come.  I  Ve  never  been  to  London." 
She  looked  at  me. 

"  We  '11  be  fearfully  sorry  if  you  don't  come,"  I  assured  her. 
"  It  seems  so  silly,  too,  when  we  have  decent  rooms  and  could 
help  you  a  lot,  showing  you  round  the  town,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing." 

In  a  while  she  agreed,  hesitating  a  little,  as  if  she  doubted  our 
sincerity. 

We  persuaded  her  —  Mick  and  I  —  to  come  to  town  with  us  a 
fortnight  before  the  beginning  of  the  term.  The  first  night  that 
we  were  there,  she  said  that  she  hated  armchairs  and  liked  a  decent 
straight-backed  seat.  We  accepted  the  statement  in  good  faith, 
and  continued  to  quarrel  over  the  two  easy  chairs  as  was  our  cus- 
tom. Long  afterwards,  Margaret  owned  to  the  diffidence  that  had 
suggested  the  lie:  she  did  n't  want  us  to  feel  she  had  a  feminine 
right  to  the  armchair. 

Truth  to  tell,  she  slipped  BO  easily  into  our  way  of  life  that 
her  coming  made  no  difference  to  our  habits.  She  roved  round 
the  town  with  us  as  if  she  had  been  another  man.  We  must 
have  been  a  queer  sight.  Margaret's  tweeds  came  from  a  famous 
house  in  the  Haymarket,  and  we  boys  prided  ourselves  on  the  vil- 
lainous state  of  our  clothes.  I  believe  Mick  was,  for  a  few  weeks, 
actually  out  at  elbow.  I  have  seen  people  turn  and  glance  from 
Margaret  to  Oliver's  vile  yellow  norf  oik  and  mass  of  red  gold  hair. 
He  never  wore  a  cap  and  his  eyes  were  bright  and  green  like  the 
eyes  of  a  wild  cat.  No  one  looked  at  the  rest  of  us  when  he  was 
in  the  room,  though  I  stood  head  and  shoulders  above  him  and 
Mick  had  the  face  of  a  youthful  gargoyle. 

One  of  Oliver's  objections  to  Margaret  had  been  her  money. 
Her  mother  died  at  her  birth  and  her  father  shut  himself  and 
his  daughter  in  a  vast  house  on  the  moors.  The  child  grew  up 
in  a  solitude  peopled  by  creatures  of  fantasy.  Her  father  assured 
himself  at  times  that  the  servants  were  not  preaching  a  God  who 
strikes  wilful  children  dead,  and  then  forgot  her.  He  was  a  free 
thinker  by  birth  and  believing  that  questing  faith  to  be  still  in  need 
of  defense  from  priests  and  women,  wrote  sad  books  in  praise  of 
Pan.  Margaret  spent  her  lonely  freedom  between  the  barren 


38  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

sweep  of  moor  and  the  shore  of  the  sea  that  filled  the  wide  air  with 
a  myriad-mouthed  chorus. 

A  sullen  persistence  had  got  her  the  brief  schooling  at  Scar- 
borough, and  during  her  second  year  at  college  her  father  died. 
The  house  on  the  moors  was  sold  to  pay  his  debts.  An  unknown 
uncle  came  from  Scotland  to  make  the  arrangements.  He  was  ex- 
clusively Whisky:  you  will  have  seen  him  on  labels  in  clubs  and 
in  unobtrusive  advertisements  in  "  Country  Life."  He  adopted 
Margaret  but,  strange  to  say,  made  no  attempt  to  order  her  way 
of  life.  There  was  something  queer  about  all  Margaret's  rela- 
tives on  her  father's  side:  they  did  n't  seem  to  have  any  of  the 
decent  domestic  virtues  of  unlimited  interference  with  the  young. 

When  she  came  to  live  with  us  she  refused  the  massive  allow- 
ance he  tried  to  make  her.  "  I  have  never  been  used  to  a  lot  of 
money,  and  I  don't  want  it,"  she  said.  I  do  not  know  how  far 
this  was  sincere  and  how  far  prompted  by  a  determination  to  have 
no  advantage  over  the  rest  of  us. 

We  came  to  London  early  in  the  September  of  1910,  and  I  spent 
my  days  in  the  reading  room  of  the  British  Museum,  while  Michael 
and  Margaret  surveyed  London  together.  They  spent  enormously 
in  'bus  fares  and  ate  sparse  meals  in  out-of-the-way  corners.  I 
came  into  the  entrance  hall  one  day  and  found  them  waiting  for 
me.  Mick  was  absorbed  in  conversation  with  a  young  woman 
done  in  primary  colors.  Margaret  stood  helpfully  at  his  side, 
grave  and  attentive.  When  I  caught  her  eye  she  smiled  radiantly 
upon  them  and  came  to  meet  me.  They  took  no  notice  at  all  of 
her  departure:  we  left  them  there  and  went  home  together. 

"Who  the  devil?"  I  began. 

Margaret  grinned.  "  She  's  an  American.  Mick  is  telling  her 
the  exact  number  of  vases  in  the  Greek  section,  the  miraculous 
birth  of  Amen  Hetep,  the  diameter  of  the  pillars  and  the  location 
of  the  man-traps  for  burglars,  and  she  is  writing  it  all  down  in  a 
little  book." 

Mick  reached  home  an  hour  after  we  did,  vastly  indignant  at 
what  he  called  our  callousness.  "  Leaving  me  there  with  that  fe- 
male," he  said.  "  I  might  have  been  on  my  way  to  Minneapolis 
by  now,  for  all  you  cared.  I  believe  I  shall  go  to  America,  there  's 
scope  for  enterprise  there." 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  39 

Shortly  afterwards,  declaring  that  he  must  have  tobacco,  he 
left  by  way  of  the  window  for  the  little  shop  at  the  top  of  the 
street.  He  had  been  gone  two  minutes  when  there  came  a  great 
knocking  at  the  door.  Margaret  went  to  let  him  in.  I  heard  her 
voice  in  the  passage  raised  with  an  intonation  of  anxiety.  **  Oh," 
she  said,  and  then  — "  We  did  n't  expect  you  until  to-morrow." 

"  Well,"  Oliver  answered  brusquely,  "  we  Ve  come  to-night. 
This  is  Anthony  Calvert.  Calvert,  this  is  Margaret." 

They  came  into  the  room  as  Mick  flung  himself  through  the  win- 
dow. He  rushed  at  Oliver,  re-introduced  Anthony  to  Margaret, 
and  shouted  for  food.  Oliver  threw  himself  violently  at  an  arm- 
chair: il.cried  out,  shook,  and  collapsed  in  the  fender. 

"  You  silly  ass,"  Mick  cried  wrathfully.  "  Can't  you  be  a  big 
blond  beast  without  breaking  chairs?  You  low  superman,  you! 
Heaven  knows  what  we  '11  have  to  pay  for  that."  He  grumbled 
until  food  came  in,  and  the  landlady,  whom  he  so  bewildered  with 
explanations,  grief  and  promises,  that  she  retreated  before  the 
wrecked  chair  with  no  more  than  a  broken  exclamation. 

Some  time  after  dinner,  Margaret  and  Oliver  began  a  dispute 
that  ran  the  course  of  all  Oliver's  arguments  —  through  sarcasm 
to  ill-temper  and  a  moody  silence.  He  was  dogmatic  beyond  all 
bearing  in  a  youngest  brother,  and  as  intolerant  of  other  folks' 
opinions  as  he  was  contemptuous  of  their  intelligence.  Strang- 
ers, fascinated  by  Mick's  charm  of  manner,  wondered  discreetly 
how  he  came  to  have  so  uncouth  and  ruffianly  a  brother.  Three 
months  later,  supposing  them  to  have  made  difficult  advances  in 
intimacy,  they  wondered  why  Oliver,  with  his  simplicity  of  speech 
and  purpose,  was  so  tolerant  of  Mick's  superficial  brilliance  and 
wilful  instability. 

But  strangers,  who  like  poor  Glaucon  ask  the  silly  questions, 
deserve  the  punishment  that  descends.  Glaucon  might  sit  i'  the 
sun  tearing  acanthus  leaves  to  shreds,  and  let  his  thoughts  go 
dreaming  through  deep  groves  or  lie  couched  among  the  violet 
leaves  beside  the  white  limbs  of  Callia,  while  the  thunder  rolled 
harmlessly  over  his  head  and  Socrates  spun  his  wordy  immortal- 
ity. But  you,  luckless  wretch,  must  sit  reading  in  an  English 
drawing-room  while  I  bemuse  myself  with  ruthless  psychological 
intent.  Faith,  I  am  so  moved  by  the  contrast  that  I  cannot  do  't. 


40  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

All  my  mother  in  me  rushes  to  my  eyes:  my  pity  for  you  is  such 
that  I  will  spare  you  the  psychology.  Subtle  is  as  subtle  does, 
and  Mick  is  now  an  F.R.S.  and  almost  a  rich  man,  while  Oliver 
—  but  you  read  the  sixpenny  papers  and  know  all  about  Oliver. 
He  writes  those  vivid,  pellucid  poems  of  his  in  a  two-roomed  cot- 
tage, and  all  his  money  would  go  in  the  Shepherd's  Purse  that 
grows  beyond  his  door-step.  Perhaps  you  know  himself,  and  he 
has  done  you  some  kindness.  Friend  nor  enemy  ask  him  for  help 
in  vain.  Or  he  has  made  trouble  for  you  by  one  of  his  prepos- 
terous social  blunders.  Choose  for  yourself  between  the  strang- 
er's judgments,  and  let  me  get  on  with  my  tale. 

I  forget  what  they  quarreled  over.  Mick  crowed  and  thumped 
his  book,  and  Anthony  swung  round  on  his  piano  stool  to  listen. 
In  her  way  Margaret  was  as  dogmatic  as  Oliver  but  immensely 
more  critical  —  a  critic  unburdened  by  any  notions  of  what  she 
ought  to  like  and  dislike.  She  disliked  the  plays  of  W.  B.  Yeats. 
"  Feeble,  windy  ghosts,"  she  called  them,  and  when  Oliver  began 
an  indignant  mouthing  of  the  lyrics,  said  — "  If  you  must  quote 
Yeats,  don't  let  it  be  *  Innisfree.'  When  no  other  distinction  re- 
mains to  the  Irish  lyricists  they  may  still  pride  themselves  on 
having  evolved  the  ugliest  adjective  in  modern  poetry.  The 
bee-loud  glade.  Bee-loud!  Good  heavens!  " 

From  poetry  they  got  somehow  to  Wagner,  and  Margaret  made 
scornful  reference  to  the  circus-music  of  Tannhauser.  Anthony 
lifted  his  eyebrows  and  played  gentle  airs  from  Die  Meistersinger. 
I  cannot  remember  the  musical  argument,  which  went  all  in  Oli- 
ver's favor.  Margaret's  technical  knowledge  failed,  and  she  was 
fain  to  drag  ethics  from  its  bench  to  help  her.  Wagner's  music, 
she  said,  harked  back  to  the  satyr-gods,  and  gathered  to  itself  all 
the  elements  that  had  been  purged  from  tragedy  in  its  long  ascent. 

"  When  I  see  people  reeling  drunkenly  away  from  Tristan  und 
Isolde,"  she  added,  "  I  thank  God  I  am  not  as  other  men."  We 
laughed  at  her,  but  Oliver  was  too  angry  to  laugh.  Anthony 
turned  back  to  the  piano  and  got  himself  softly  into  Beethoven. 
We  were  silent,  listening. 


CHAPTER  X 

IV  THAT  amazes  me  when  I  look  back  on  our  life  in  London  is 
VV  not  its  inconsequence,  nor  its  unleashed  enthusiasms,  nor 
even  its  perilous  freedom.  It  is  our  devastating  indulgence  in  talk 
and  self-explanatory  criticism.  It  might  be  forgiven  us,  for  we 
were  born  in  an  era  of  talk.  People  were  talking  all  round 
us,  explaining  life  to  themselves  and  themselves  to  life.  We  had 
a  desire  to  make  trial  of  life  that  might  have  led  to  adventures  if 
we  had  been  in  Texas,  but  since  we  were  in  London,  led  only 
to  confusion  of  thought  and  blunting  of  sincerity. 

There  have  been  earlier  eras  of  talkers.  Certain  men  met  in 
a  grove  of  plane-trees  and  talked  to  the  stars,  who  continue  to 
echo  their  words.  There  were  also  men  and  women  who  sat  on 
silk  brocade,  talking  graceful  revolution  until  the  ground  opened 
and  swallowed  them  up.  I  have  no  quarrel  with  such  disinter- 
ested babblers. 

But  the  talkers  of  our  day  were  afflicted  with  the  Russian  fever 
and  the  Fabian  itch.  They  could  neither  let  themselves  nor  their 
surroundings  be.  They  tore  both  to  pieces,  strewing  the  frag- 
ments to  the  suffering  winds,  or  re-arranged  them  in  grotesque 
mosaics.  They  sat  in  cafes  and  talked  art  with  their  quaint 
women  folk.  They  founded  reviews  wherein  to  scratch  each  oth- 
er's backs.  They  became  bitter  and  wrote  unkind  manifestos. 
They  were  abusive  and  superior,  austere  and  licentious,  and  each 
according  to  the  best  and  newest  tradition.  They  talked  them- 
selves into  every  kind  of  pose.  They  even  became  marytrs. 

It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  we  should  escape  the  plague. 

We  were  in  London,  held  and  fascinated  by  the  ferment  of  a 
million-minded,  million-bodied  activity.  We  belonged  to  no  set 
or  class,  but  we  touched  the  fringes  of  many  of  them.  We  could 
make  a  show  of  watching  their  interplay  of  forces.  For  we 
affected  a  dispassionate  attitude  to  life:  we  investigated  it,  talked 
about  it,  but  never  admitted  either  to  bewilderment  or  awe.  We 

41 


42  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

had  a  half-conscious  idea  of  ourselves  as  skeptical  young  Olym- 
pians, clear-eyed  before  the  shams  and  ridiculous  absorptions  of  a 
middle-aged  society. 

At  least  we  had  a  halting  perception  of  the  extraordinary  chaos 
of  modern  life,  rushing  into  blind  creeks,  sweeping  back  in  wave 
upon  wave  of  seemingly  resistless  power,  with  leaping  white 
spume  of  cross-currents  and  sunlit,  day-born  shallows.  At  the 
older  Universities,  we  said,  men  hear  life  through  the  shutters 
of  warm-lighted  rooms  —  a  far-off  murmur,  kindly  and  alluring, 
the  sea  calling  to  quiet  inland  towns,  so  distant  and  secure  that 
the  harshness  and  the  fretting  are  only  deeper  notes  in  the  ordered 
harmony.  They  are  an  ancient  and  isolated  people,  holding  even 
against  their  will  to  the  attenuated  feelings  and  ideals  that  the 
years  have  smoothed  and  softened  for  them.  They  cannot  help 
being  swayed  by  that  murmuring  age-old  voice.  Life  is  refracted 
for  them  by  a  glass  that  mellows  all  its  colors,  thinning  them. 
Doubtless  they  talk  as  much  as  we  do,  plan  and  speculate,  but 
they  have  it  all  out  of  perspective.  Things  that  matter  enter  their 
life  from  wrong  angles  and  in  distorted  shapes.  Some  of  them 
take  up  socialism  and  others  actresses.  The  actresses  are  more 
amusing,  but  the  socialism  is  considered  to  be  in  better  taste.  The 
earnest  ones  read  revolutionary  pamphlets,  with  cover  designs  of 
classic  youths  and  maidens  fronting  the  dawn :  it  must  bother  them 
immensely  to  meet  the  complacent,  greasy  cave-man  of  the  lower 
middle-class,  and  the  broken  torn  wreckage  of  the  slum  —  if  in- 
deed they  permit  themselves  to  run  the  risk  of  meeting  such  an- 
noying contradictions  of  their  orderly  ideals.  It  is  far  more 
likely  that  from  Oxford  and  Cambridge  they  retire  to  county  and 
parliamentary  fastnesses,  or  if  they  are  very  earnest,  become  talk- 
ing members  of  the  National  Liberal  Club  and  the  Fabian  Society. 

Women  come  into  their  world  in  an  awkward  fashion,  thrust- 
ing athwart  their  dream  of  life,  rather  than  taking  a  place  in  the 
fabric  of  its  reality.  Some  of  them  still  affect  a  romantic  belief 
in  the  essential  fineness  of  women.  They  cannot,  such  is  the  un- 
fortunate keenness  of  their  intellect,  help  having  secret,  pleasur- 
able doubts,  but  these  they  suppress  with  nobility.  They  discuss 
the  new  demands  of  women,  and  nerve  themselves  to  a  gracious 
and  comprehending  toleration,  ignorant  apparently,  that  women 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  43 

long  since  passed  the  stage  of  needing  or  caring  to  be  believed 
in.  And  afterwards,  when  their  easy  toleration  is  laughed  at  or 
ignored,  they  are  hurt  and  fall  into  psychological  quagmires  and 
bemusings.  Some  of  them  write  novels  about  it. 

"They  have  two  sorts  of  ways  of  regarding  women  in  those 
old-world  retreats,"  Margaret  said.  "  For  one  kind  of  man 
there  's  nothing  between  the  fatuity  he  marries  and  the  painted  ad- 
ventures of  Piccadilly.  The  other,  the  better  kind,  is  still  trying 
hardily  to  understand  us,  when  really  we  don't  care  a  damn 
whether  we  're  understood  or  not.  You  've  only  got  to  live  with 
us  and  let  us  live  with  you  without  picking  at  our  souls  or  dis- 
tracting yourselves  with  a  preposterous  sex  psychology." 

Margaret  lived  with  us  for  three  years,  and  during  the  whole  of 
that  time  I  do  not  remember  that  her  femininity  obtruded  itself 
upon  us,  either  as  a  pleasing  study  or  as  a  nuisance.  She  just  was 
there:  we  quarreled  among  ourselves,  argued  and  fought,  and 
wandered  round  London  together  as  if  we  had  been  five  men. 
Even  when  Oliver  fell  in  love  with  her,  it  made  no  difference 
to  the  rest  of  us,  except  that  he  sulked  a  good  deal  and  sat  hud- 
dled up  over  the  fire  in  the  best  armchair.  Margaret  ignored  his 
moods  admirably.  He  would  have  fallen  in  love  just  the  same 
had  she  lived  at  the  other  end  of  London  —  with  her  or  another 
—  and  it  would  have  made  neither  more  nor  less  difference  to 
the  rest  of  us.  There  were  one  or  two  incidents,  but  they  were 
kept  in  the  background  by  both. 

My  love  for  Margaret  stands  out  as  something  apart  from  the 
cheerful,  careless  comradeship  of  that  student  life,  a  force  that 
appeared  out  of  the  darkness  and  went  again,  leaving  us  shaken 
and  blinded,  but  nowise  afraid  of  our  life  together  or  awkward 
in  the  daily  intimate  relationship.  We  knew  each  other  too  well: 
were  too  aware  of  the  littleness  and  meanness  in  each  other  as  of 
the  fine  possibilities  and  the  things  that  stirred  and  held. 

I  think  it  rather  an  important  thing  —  our  freedom  from  the 
obsession  of  a  romantic  sex  ideal  that  keeps  bursting  out  even 
now  in  books  by  men  on  the  Soul  of  Woman,  or  thrusts  up  in  a 
strange,  perverted  form  as  a  bitter  antagonism  to  all  that  savors 
of  feminism.  We  had  no  delusions  even  about  those  feminine  de- 
mands and  rebellions  that  so  intrigued  the  imagination  of  the 


44  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

thinking  male  ten  or  twenty  years  ago.  We  had  seen  them  in 
their  stark  and  futile  silliness. 

It  must  have  been  early  in  the  spring  of  1913  —  not  six  years 
ago,  and  how  queer  and  doll-like  the  figures  and  colors  are  now  — 
when  we  walked  down  Charing  Cross  Road  into  a  crowd  that 
eddied  about  the  Square,  flowed  over  in  the  track  of  the  'buses, 
and  stood  in  detached  quarrelsome  groups  on  the  steps  of  the  Na- 
tional Gallery.  At  the  foot  of  the  Monument  a  wisp  of  a  woman 
shook  and  worried  her  body  in  the  throes  of  a  speech  we  could 
not  hear.  A  few  men  and  girls  held  banners  round  her  and  lis- 
tened indifferently.  We  hesitated. 

"  Oh,  come  on,"  Oliver  said,  with  a  violent  affectation  of  scorn. 
We  pushed  and  scrambled  round  the  edges  of  the  crowd  and  got 
into  Whitehall,  delayed  once  by  Mick's  halt  before  a  scared  little 
man  whom  he  accused  of  being  a  detective.  "  Come  out  and  stand 
round  in  those  boots,  and  think  you  '11  not  be  known,"  he  said. 
"  You  must  be  silly." 

"  I  'm  no  detective,"  the  little  creature  cried  indignantly. 
"Why,  I'm  a  Fabian." 

"  I  see  no  difference,"  Mick  retorted. 

We  were  half-way  down  Whitehall  before  we  realized  that  the 
noise  behind  had  become  deafening.  A  nondescript  crowd,  wav- 
ing its  arms,  and  shouting  "  to  Downing  Street,"  poured  out  of  the 
Square  and  rolled  past  us,  the  little  woman  vociferous  in  front. 
A  single  line  of  police  stretched  across  the  road,  and  before  that 
thin  barrier  the  huge  crowd  wavered,  turned  and  broke  into  help- 
less confusion.  A  red-faced  man  with  a  desolate  squint  put  a 
protecting  arm  round  the  small  woman,  and  the  two  reeled  across 
the  road  in  frantic  embrace.  Policemen  on  horseback  appeared 
and  began  to  drive  the  people  back  towards  the  Square.  A  man 
was  caught  and  squeezed  between  two  horses  and  screamed  fear- 
fully. Bodies  of  mounted  police  poured  suddenly  out  of  North- 
umberland Avenue  and  the  Mall,  and  rode  down  upon  the  crowd 
already  surging  towards  them.  Possibly  the  policemen  were 
alarmed,  or  their  horses  ran  away  with  them.  Whatever  its  cause, 
the  effect  upon  the  crowd  of  the  double  charge  was  disastrous. 
Men  and  women  ran  madly  backwards  and  forwards.  We  saw 
a  man  coming  out  of  Scotland  Yark  struck  down  on  the  pave- 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  45 

ment  and  carried  off  with  the  blood  pouring  down  his  face,  and  a 
woman  rescued  by  foot  police  from  two  roughs.  Michael  rushed 
in  to  help  and  was  seized :  we  saw  him  fighting  and  kicking  igno- 
miniously.  In  the  confusion  the  little  woman  was  borne  off  in 
a  police  taxi:  we  thought  that  the  red-faced  man  wept. 

Then  two  mounted  police  bore  down  upon  us:  I  flung  an  arm 
across  Margaret  and  pressed  her  against  the  wall.  For  a  min- 
ute the  murderous  hoofs  slipped  on  the  glass  roof  of  the  cellar 
below  our  feet,  recovered,  and  slipped  again.  Margaret,  inco- 
herent with  rage,  shook  her  fist  at  the  nervous  riders.  They  drew 
away:  pushing  somehow  through  the  demoralized  crowd  and  the 
frightened  animals,  we  got  out  into  the  Strand.  An  old  gentle- 
man stood  beside  us  with  a  torn  coat  and  hot,  creased  face.  He 
was  furiously  angry,  and  gesticulated  in  our  faces.  "  On  the  pave- 
ment," he  said,  "  it  is  shameful,  shameful.  To  ride  those  mad 
animals  on  the  pavement." 

The  English,  who  are  the  most  disorderly  race  in  the  world, 
have  the  greatest  reverence  for  the  appearance  of  order. 

He  stammered.  "  I  walk  on  the  Embankment  with  my  wife, 
as  I  have  done  every  fine  afternoon  for  twelve  years.  My  wife 
thinks  we  should  return  for  tea,  and  so  we  do,  and  suddenly 
those  monsters  are  upon  us,  riding  on  the  pavement  among  decent 
folk." 

"  But  where  is  your  wife?  "  Margaret  said  gently. 

He  looked  at  us  once  in  reproach  and  plunged  back  into  the 
crowd.  Shortly  Mick  joined  us,  in  an  indescribable  state  of  mind 
and  apparel.  He  had  been  kicked"1  in  the  mouth  and  could  not 
speak. 

Some  weeks  later  Margaret  was  mixed  up  in  a  suffrage  row  in 
Hyde  Park  and  came  home  white  and  shaken,  clutching  the  torn 
fragments  of  a  ruffle  that  she  had  worn  round  her  neck.  She  had 
been  turned  out  of  the  Park  six  times,  and  finally  rescued  from 
arrest  by  a  kindly  gas-worker,  who  lifted  her  over  the  railings  into 
the  sympathetic  arms  of  a  frayed  young  man.  The  frayed  one 
told  her  inopportunely  that  he  was  an  Anarchist  with  Shavian 
leanings. 

She  was  indignant  beyond  measure  and  too  ashamed  of  herself 
to  keep  up  her  pose  of  Olympian  serenity.  We  stared  at  her 


46  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

stupidly  and  wondered  what  had  wrought  such  madness  in  our 
self-possessed  Margaret. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  Really  I  don't  know.  It  just  hap- 
pened to  me.  I  didn't  even  know  there  was  a  suffrage  meeting 
until  I  came  upon  it  out  of  Kensington  Gardens.  Some  one  —  a 
gray  little  woman  with  untidy  hair  —  asked  me  to  speak.  They 
were  speaking  in  groups  all  over  the  place  and  the  police  kept 
separating  them  and  moving  them  on.  I  made  a  speech.  I 
don't  know  what  I  said  —  some  sort  of  deflated  nonsense,  I  sup- 
pose. Then  the  police  grabbed  us  and  ran  us  out  into  Park 
Lane.  I  got  excited  and  angry.  I  must  have  gone  rather  mad, 
I  think.  Anyway,  I  went  back  into  the  Park,  dragging  that  poor 
little  woman  with  me.  I  went  back  six  times,  and  the  police  were 
worse  each  time.  I  knew  I  was  making  a  fool  of  myself,  and  I 
could  n't  help  it." 

She  pushed  her  sleeve  up,  and  we  saw  that  her  arm  was  dis- 
colored and  swollen  from  shoulder  to  wrist.  "  They  twisted  my 
wrists,"  she  said,  "  and  one  of  them  got  me  by  the  throat.  The 
things  I  said  —  and  did.  You  would  n't  believe.  I  kicked  him 
and  trod  upon  his  feet.  I  made  unspeakable  remarks:  I  didn't 
know  they  were  in  my  mind.  One  of  them  put  a  large  damp  hand 
over  my  mouth.  I  bit  it."  She  paused  and  regarded  us  de- 
fensively. 

"  I  understand  now  what  makes  them  fight  policemen  and  kick 
stewards  of  meetings  and  chain  themselves  to  railings.  It  goes 
to  your  head  —  like  —  Wagner,"  she  finished  vaguely. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried  suddenly,  "  did  you  ever  hear  of  anything  so 
silly.  The  fool  I  've  been.  That  help  women !  How  could  I 
make  such  a  fool  of  myself?  Kicking  policemen  in  petticoats 
and  thin  shoes!  "  She  laughed  abruptly.  "  That  poor  woman. 
Towards  the  end  she  thought  I  was  a  malicious  fiend.  The  last 
time  I  saw  her  she  was  limping  after  the  'bus  that  runs  down 
Park  Lane  —  all  rags  and  ends  of  hair  —  crying  and  wiping  at  her 
tears  with  her  gloves.  *  I  '11  never  come  out  with  you  again,'  she 
said.  As  if  she  had  n't  started  it  all."  Margaret  poked  absently 
at  the  fire.  "  I  thought  once  what  a  silly  game  it  all  was  —  this 
governors'  game  of  bluffing  with  policemen,  and  putting  large 
damp  hands  across  your  mouth.  It  seemed  almost  cruel  to  call 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  47 

the  bluff.  Somebody  shrieked  'Cossacks'  at  them.  Cossacks! 
Poor,  bewildered,  perspiring,  angry  men,  chasing  women  off 
the  grass,  twisting  their  wrists.  And  the  one  I  bit  .  .  ." 

Mick  interrupted  rashly.  "  Hanging  on  to  the  vote  by  the  skin 
of  your  teeth — " 

She  turned  on  him.  "  It  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  vote  —  all 
that.  Nor  freedom,  nor  anything.  It  was  just  kicking  about  in 
petticoats.  What  a  fool  —  Oh  Lord,  what  a  fool !  " 

She  was  moodily  bad-tempered  for  the  whole  of  the  evening. 
Once  I  caught  a  wry  face  as  she  sat  pretending  to  read  her 
Beowulf,  that  lupine  futility  of  an  Anglo-Saxon  saga.  I  think 
she  was  tasting  policeman.  Just  before  supper  she  got  up  and 
went  out  alone  and  returned  near  midnight,  tired  out  and  serene, 
having  been  to  Isleworth  on  the  'bus. 

I  remember  now  the  spasm  of  fury  that  seized  me  at  the  sight 
of  that  slender  bruised  arm. 


CHAPTER  XI 

\ Y7"E  formed  the  habit  of  meeting  once  a  week  to  talk  and 
W  smoke.  There  would  be  a  dozen  of  us,  all  students  at 
King's :  we  met  in  the  common  room  or  in  our  Herne  Hill  rooms. 
Though  Mick  dominated  these  talks,  we  were  always  conscious 
of  the  strain  and  tug  of  two  other  personalities,  bitterly  and  in- 
stinctively hostile  to  each  other.  Of  all  those  bold  debaters, 
Chamberlayn  and  Kersent  alone  remain  with  the  standards  of  their 
hot  youth.  Boyle  returned  to  South  Africa:  he  went  in  on  the 
wrong  side  in  the  miners'  strike,  gaining  wealth  and  damnation 
thereby.  Seumas  O'Donnel  married  ships  and  took  his  wit  to 
lighten  the  austerities  of  the  Dublin  Castle  party:  I  think  he  is 
bored  and  repentant,  and  no  one  will  take  back  his  silver  pieces. 
But  Chamberlayn  and  Kersent  will  never  now  turn  traitor  or 
grow  old. 

Kersent's  bitterness  was  older  than  he  was.  It  had  lived  with 
his  father  since  he  first  came  to  Walthamstow,  a  raw  lad,  squeezed 
out  of  his  native  village  because  its  noble  owner  liked  building 
stables  better  than  cottages.  The  two-legged  cattle  had  therefore 
to  get  out  when  they  arrived  at  marriageable  age,  taking  their 
vulgar  and  inconvenient  passions  with  them. 

The  lower  humans  are  lacking  in  self-control  and  self-respect: 
they  will  litter  as  readily  on  a  gentleman's  estate  as  in  a  filthy 
slum.  They  continue  to  be  prolific  when  decency  and  necessity 
are  alike  against  their  folly.  What  is  to  be  done  with  such  cattle? 
Clear  them  off  the  land.  The  noble  landlord  writes  to  the  papers 
on  the  falling  birth-rate.  Pray  continue  to  breed,  my  dear  crea- 
tures, we  need  you  in  the  factories,  on  the  docks,  and  in  the 
bloody  trenches.  But  not  on  my  estate!  Is  it  a  warren  or  a  stye? 
God  forbid!  But  continue,  my  brave  fellows.  Heroes  as  well 
as  blacklegs,  are  born  in  foetid  slums.  We  have  need  of  both  to 
keep  our  smiling  land  for  us.  To  keep  our  land  smiling  for  US. 

48 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  49 

Kersent  was  born  two  months  after  his  father's  marriage  and 
arrival  in  London.  This  mishap  delayed  his  college  course  by 
three  years. 

In  his  eighteenth  year  a  philanthropic  religieuse  interested  her- 
self in  the  pale  studious  boy.  She  offered  to  pay  his  fees  at  any 
college  of  London  University,  asking  only  to  be  satisfied  of  his 
respectability.  When  her  investigations  discovered  the  disgrace- 
ful circumstance  of  his  birth,  she  withdrew  with  her  offer,  her 
interest,  and  the  wild  hopes  she  had  raised,  tumbling  Kersent  dis- 
dainfully off  her  opulent  lap,  back  into  the  mud  where  she  had 
found  him.  He  said  that  in  his  despair  he  wanted  to  kill  himself. 
He  laughed  queerly  as  he  told  us  this. 

"I'm  a  nice  specimen  of  manhood,  don't  you  think?"  he 
said,  twisting  himself  round  before  the  glass  over  our  mantel- 
shelf. He  passed  his  hand  down  the  reflection.  The  thin,  livid 
face  under  its  sheaf  of  colorless  hair  nodded  sardonically  back  at 
him.  The  deep-set  ironic  eyes  glanced  down  over  narrow  chest 
and  bent  shoulders. 

"  I  was  always  pale  and  skinny,"  he  said,  "  but  not  like  this  — 
hunched  and  done-for.  This  is  what  I  Ve  paid  for  college.  I 
taught  all  day  and  studied  all  night.  Four  years  it  took  me  to 
get  the  fees  together.  I  am  done  for,  you  know,"  he  added,  in 
the  constrained  silence.  "  Played  out.  I  have  n't  the  stamina  of 
a  louse.  I  'm  twenty-four,  but  I  look  forty,  eh?  " 

He  was  taking  Psychology.  Chadding,  his  professor,  said  that 
Kersent  was  the  finest  psychologist  he  had  had  through  his  hands 
in  thirty  years.  He  held  out  glowing  promises.  The  deep- 
rooted  irony  peered  out  of  Kersent's  eyes. 

"  Do  you  think  his  moral  scruples  will  let  him  keep  his  prom- 
ises? "  he  asked  us.  "  If  he  goes  sniffing  after  marriage  and  birth 
certificates,  I  mean." 

"  Those  people  have  more  sense  than  that,"  I  told  him. 

"Have  they?  "  he  said  in  his  soft  melancholy  voice.  "What 
makes  you  think  that?  If  they  are  so  wise,  why  don't  they  see 
that  I  sha'n't  live  to  finish  my  college  course  if  I  don't  get  out  of 
that  damned  Walthamstow  court?  "  A  gentle  smile  twisted  his 
mouth.  "That  paunchy,  feather-trimmed  old  moralist  dropped 
me  because  I  was  conceived  in  sin.  Old  Chadding  asked  me  to 


50  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

dinner  once.     His  wife  did  n't  like  my  coming  in  morning  dress. 
He  has  n't  asked  me  since." 

We  admired  Kersent.  We  could  not  help  admiring  the  obsti- 
nate will  in  his  frail  body,  and  the  terrible  incisive  skill  in 
analysis  that  made  him  dreaded  in  debate.  But  we  never  got 
from  admiration  to  affection.  Something  in  Kersent  repelled  us. 
I  don't  know  if  it  were  simply  that  there  was  nothing  in  him  to 
kindle  to  the  warmth  in  us.  He  might  have  been  frozen,  so  that 
the  fumbling  tendrils  of  friendliness  were  chilled  and  dead  before 
they  touched  him.  Or  it  might  have  been  that  all  the  positive 
powers  of  his  personality  were  deflected  to  the  shielding  and 
fostering  of  the  genius  he  felt  in  him,  leaving  only  a  negative 
repellant  aspect  for  other  men.  God  knows  he  had  every  reason 
for  his  self-centered  passion. 

However  it  may  be,  he  was  always  in  our  circle,  a  lonely, 
puzzling  figure.  He  talked  and  listened  to  us  with  the  pale  re- 
flection on  his  face  of  a  smile  that  was  somehow  turned  inward. 
He  seemed  to  smile  at  himself  in  a  melancholy  and  ironic  solitude. 
We  fought  against  a  dislike  of  him.  Only  Mick  poured  out  before 
him  an  ardor  of  praise  and  affection.  He  thrust  upon  Kersent  all 
the  attributes  of  strength  and  surety  that  he  felt  lacking  in  himself. 
Kersent  was  his  idol,  his  mysterious,  compelling  sphinx.  He 
forced  Kersent  at  us  until  our  latent  dislike  became  almost  active. 

One  man  made  no  secret  of  his  dislike.  Chamberlayn  frankly 
hated  Kersent.  He  could  never  argue  with  him,  for  he  lost  his 
temper  under  Kersent's  rapier  thrusts  and  flung  away  his  argu- 
ment in  a  flurry  of  wrath.  I  suppose  there  was  something  nakedly 
personal  in  their  antagonism.  Kersent  hated  Chamberlayn's  class 
with  a  cold,  quiet  hatred,  more  dangerous  and  more  bitter  than 
any  wild  crying.  Such  hatreds  are  the  icy  mountain  springs  that 
pour  down  into  the  spumy  torrent  of  revolution.  He  hated  Cham- 
berlayn and  despised  him.  I  do  not  believe  that  he  envied  him 
for  a  minute:  his  scorn  was  too  stern  for  that.  And  Chamber- 
layn was  studiously  careful  to  keep  any  hint  of  class  prejudice 
out  of  his  wildest  argument. 

Yet  I  daresay  he  had  an  unconscious  sense  that  Kersent  was 
the  latest  and  most  deadly  of  the  forces  arrayed  against  his  class 
and  all  that  it  stood  for  in  prejudice  and  self-esteem.  Chamber- 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  51 

layn  was  the  last  of  a  family  that  came  down  in  an  unwinking 
radiance  of  prestige  and  honor  from  the  remote  easy  ancestor 
whose  wife  had  pleased  a  king.  Kersent  was  the  emerging  intel- 
lect of  the  servile  classes  to  which  that  prestige  and  honor  had 
hitherto  opposed  an  arrogant  front.  Unconsciously,  Chamber- 
layn  sensed  a  conqueror.  Discontent,  greed,  misery  —  all  such 
diseases  and  stirrings  of  these  servile  classes  could  be  met  and 
defeated.  But  its  awakening  intellect  —  never.  That  was  im- 
mortal. It  might  be  numbed  by  poverty  and  misled  by  false 
dawns,  but  not  killed. 

What  Chamberlayn  felt  unconsciously,  Kersent  knew.  He  had 
been  subjected  to  the  numbing  process.  He  resented  it,  and  he 
despised  Chamberlayn. 

Jack  Chamberlayn  was  a  professed  democrat.  His  father  had 
been  for  sending  him  to  Oxford. 

"  But  I  would  n't  go,"  he  said.  "  I  wanted  to  have  a  decent 
chance  in  life.  They  started  me  badly  enough.  My  Aunt  Jane 
paid  for  me  at  Eton.  You  know,  it's  very  fine  and  jolly  and 
all  that  —  but  they  hold  and  teach  you  a  tradition  altogether  at 
variance  with  modern  life.  Life  has  changed,  and  women  have 
changed  since  the  tradition  was  made,  but  their  attitude  to  these 
things  has  n't  changed  at  all.  I  don't  see  how  the  older  public 
schools  can  ever  be  changed.  Seems  to  me  they  will  just  have 
to  be  side-tracked.  Pity  they  had  n't  been  side-tracked  in  time  to 
save  me.  I  've  got  their  spirit  in  my  blood.  I  could  never  rid 
myself  of  it  now.  What  could  I  have  done  —  the  son  of  a 
pauper  Duke  —  if  I  'd  been  educated  at  Oxford,  but  let  myself 
be  boosted  into  the  diplomatic  service?  And  there  I  'd  have 
blundered,  with  neither  the  brains  nor  the  inclination  for  the 
peculiar  type  of  lying  required  of  me,  until  maybe  I  'd  blundered 
the  whole  world  into  a  war.  I  'd  have  had  to  live  in  a  foreign 
capital  with  a  lot  of  jabbering  foreigners,  and  dance  attendance 
on  pot-bellied,  starred  and  gartered  fools  and  amateur  Napoleons 
in  petticoats,  eaten  up  and  bedizened  with  vanity.  God,  what  a 
life. 

"  I  've  always  wanted  to  do  things  with  my  hands,"  he  added 
shyly.  "  I  '11  build  a  bridge  perhaps." 

So  he  had  come  to  King's  —  to  give  himself  a  chance.     He  tried 


52  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

\ 

and  wearied  of  several  socialists  and  socialist  groups  before  he 
stumbled  on  us,  or  we  on  him.  Indeed,  when  we  first  noticed 
him,  he  was  arguing  in  the  Common  Room  with  a  Fabian. 

"  You  're  neither  one  thing  nor  the  other,"  he  was  saying. 
"  Don't  you  see  that  you  can't  have  all  the  pretty  graces  of  a 
Versailles  civilization  in  a  democratic  state?  You  Ve  got  to 
choose.  Democracy  can  be  a  lot  of  beautiful  and  fine  things, 
but  it  can't  be  an  aristocracy." 

The  Fabian  was  stammering  a  little,  overawed  by  the  godhead 
in  a  Duke's  son.  We  bore  down  in  our  overbearing  way,  and 
elbowed  him  off  the  stage. 

"Scornst  thou  that  man?"  Anthony  cried.  "How  we  love 
you." 

Chamberlayn  turned  and  began  to  explain  to  us  eagerly  his 
scheme  for  reforming  society  by  an  alliance  of  Tory  and  So- 
cialist. 

But,  apart  from  the  democratic  aberrations  in  him,  it  was  hard 
to  say  just  what  had  made  Chamberlayn  a  member  of  our  group. 
We  prided  ourselves  on  a  hatred  of  the  established  disorder. 
Chamberlayn,  frankly,  could  see  no  disorder  that  a  few  wise 
reforms  would  not  right.  He  had  a  single-eyed  faith  in  the 
civilizing  influence  of  the  British  Empire.  He  wanted  the  lower 
classes  to  be  thrifty  and  have  clean  homes  and  receive  a  decency 
of  food  and  learning.  He  thought  that  if  Radical  parliamenta- 
rians, brewers  and  stockbrokers,  could  be  reduced  to  a  proper 
subservience  to  t&e  Conservative  party,  that  party  would  shine 
out  in  wisdom  and  beneficence  on  all  men,  black  and  white, 
who  toiled  and  paid  taxes  under  the  good  British  sun.  "  You  've 
got  to  help  us,  you  socialists,"  he  said.  "  You  know  things  we 
don't:  we  can  lead  as  you  can't." 

Kersent  thrust  venomously  at  what  he  called  this  bric-a-brac 
socialism.  "You  got  it  out  of  the  Wells  bran-tub,"  he  said. 
"  Don't  you  ever  think  for  yourself?  " 

The  taunt  was  just  enough.  Chamberlayn  took  his  ideas 
straight  over  from  the  best  authorities;  that  is  to  say,  from  those 
who  disturbed  him  least.  He  liked  above  all  things  to  know 
where  he  stood.  He  liked  to  think  what  the  best  people  thought. 
He  turned  a  resolute  back  upon  all  that  might  shake  his  belief 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  53 

that  things  were  as  he  thought  they  should  be  in  a  decent  god- 
fearing world  wherein  wives  respected  their  husbands,  children 
were  round  limbed  and  healthy,  maidens  all  pure,  men  all  anxious 
to  deal  fairly  by  each  other  —  if  only  they  were  not  hindered 
and  confused  by  cranks,  agitators  and  Radicals.  We  laughed 
at  him:  we  got  angry,  and  stormed  at  him.  But  it  was  all  to 
no  purpose.  He  had  persuaded  himself  that  all  tended  towards 
the  best  in  a  good  world,  and  towards  the  best  he  saw  it  tend. 

Our  weekly  meetings  were  retit  asunder  by  his  futile,  hot- 
mouthed  quarrels  with  Kersent.  Sometimes  we  got  them  pre- 
cariously on  to  common  ground,  but  Chamberlayn  could  not 
long  forbear  tilting  at  Kersent,  nor  Kersent  from  pricking  Cham- 
berlayn's  prancing  ardor.  We  fumbled  our  way  through  their 
quarrels  to  a  definite  idea  of  what  we  might  do  to  help  the  world 
to  the  millennium. 

We  hung  for  a  time  in  the  outskirts  of  a  rather  conscious  self- 
scorn.  There  was  so  much  to  do,  and  we  seemed  to  do  nothing. 
We  filled  up  the  time  with  hearty  abuse  of  a  decrepit  society. 
We  were  to  be  the  new  Eikonoklasts,  and  under  that  bombastic 
standard  talked  and  swaggered  until  we  were  brought  up  sharply 
by  one  of  Kersent's  poisoned  barbs,  and  collapsed  deflated. 
Youth  and  arrogance  blew  us  out  again,  and  off  we  sailed. 

"  This  world,"  Mick  said,  "  is  run  by  dead  men,  horrid  hairy 
men  like  the  Rev.  Strut,  who  cluck  in  their  throats  and  put  heavy 
flat  hands  on  your  heads.  How  that  old  beast  loathed  us:  you 
could  see  his  loathing  in  his  little  red  eyes,  and  yet  we  never 
set  out  to  annoy  him.  He  just  came  to  hating  us  because  we  were 
young,  and  did  n't  believe  in  him  any  more.  You  remember  that 
sly-mouthed,  slithering  son  of  his  —  scared  to  death  of  the  Rev- 
erend, and  relieving  himself  in  all  sorts  of  dirty  pranks  out  of 
the  reverent  sight.  If  I  had  a  son  like  that  I  'd  hold  his  head  un- 
der water  until  he  choked.  When  Chamberlayn  's  an  old  man 
he  '11  oppress  his  sons,  only  he  '11  do  it  in  a  dignified,  upright 
sort  of  way  that  they  won't  be  able  to  kick  against." 

"  Don't  you  want  your  sons  to  respect  you?  "  Chamberlayn 
said. 

"  No.  I  don't.  Why  the  devil  should  they?  What  is  there 
to  respect  in  dried-up  shanks  and  white  hair?  They  can  respect 


54  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

my  work  —  if  I  've  done  any  —  and  I  hope  they  '11  treat  me  kindly 
for  the  sake  of  it." 

Chamberlayn  shrugged.  "I  don't  understand  you,"  he  said 
carelessly.  "  I  think  you  're  only  talking." 

"  Of  course  you  don't,  dear  man.  You  were  born  to  be  re- 
spected, and  a  ruler  of  men.  Your  sort  does  actually  rule.  You 
simply  can't  feel  how  unjust  and  beastly  things  are.  And  if  you 
do,  you  deceive  yourself  into  thinking  that  it 's  all  for  the  best, 
that  the  poor  and  dirty  are  a  natural  balance  to  the  rich  and 
beautiful,  and  it  must  be  their  own  fault  if  they  've  got  no  bath- 
room and  God  will  reward  'em  for  it  anyway.  You  couldn't 
rule  or  live  comfortably  if  you  did  n't  deceive  yourself  like  that. 
You  'd  turn  traitor  to  your  own  class,  and  then  they  'd  fall  on 
you  and  kick  your  corpse  into  the  river  .  .  ." 

"  It 's  not  his  fault,"  Kersent  put  in  maliciously.  "  His  psy- 
chology is  still  somewhere  in  the  early  feudal  stages.  It  runs  in 
blinkers.  He  has  the  idea  of  a  wonderful,  beneficent  ruling  class 
with  the  common  herd  clustering  trustfully  round  —  learning  to 
read  at  mother's  knee,  so  to  speak.  His  mind  is  so  full  of  a 
golden  haze  that  he  just  can't  see  that  life  never  was  like  that, 
nor  ever  will  be.  In  a  dim  sort  of  way,  he  knows  there 's  blood 
and  misery,  but  he  thinks  the  blood  flows  to  manure  the  ground 
and  the  misery  is  sent  to  purge  the  spirit  .  .  ." 

"  I  do  know  where  I  stand,"  Chamberlayn  cried  hotly,  "  and 
that 's  more  than  you  do.  If  my  world  is  all  out  of  drawing, 
yours  is  a  nebulous  mess." 

"It  must  be  wonderful  to  have  things  so  sharp  and  clear," 
Mick  said  softly.  "  To  know  what  the  world  ought  to  be  like 
and  then  to  see  it  so.  To  lean  like  a  tired  child  on  the  broad 
bosom  of  tradition,  and  be  there  lulled  to  sleep.  Cradle  Song 
by  chorus  of  bankers  and  merchant  princes  — '  The  world  is  fair 
and  round  and  full  of  juice.  We  '11  squeeze  it  while  it  purrs  its 
happiness.  Hush-a-bye,  baby,  up  in  a  tree:  Grow  up  and  work 
for  wifie  and  me.' " 

Kersent  sat  smiling  to  himself.  *'  Chamberlayn  's  wise.  He  's 
very  wise  and  old.  He  has  all  the  wisdom  of  his  fathers.  Don't 
you  see  that  if  his  mind  responded  at  all  to  the  changes  in  life 
he  couldn't  deal  with  life  in  the  broad,  simple  fashion  of  your 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  55 

great  statesman  ?  It 's  to  the  interest  of  those  in  power  to  keep 
things  as  they  are.  The  old  wolf  likes,  the  pack  to  run  in  the 
old  known  ways.  Old  men  like  old  familiar  things.  New  things, 
strange,  disturbing  things,  shake  them  and  destroy  their  self- 
confidence.  They  don't  know  how  to  adapt  themselves  to  a  new 
order:  they  tremble  for  their  power.  All  change  is  associated 
with  a  troubling  sense  of  insecurity.  And  they  count  on  this. 
They  say  —  '  Don't  go  shifting  about:  you  '11  upset  the  boat.  The 
bottom  will  come  out,  and  you  can't  swim.'  And  there  they  go, 
pretending  that  the  timbers  aren't  rotten  and  quivering  —  until 
one  day  the  whole  thing  will  drop  to  pieces  and  we  shall  all  be 
floundering  in  an  uncharted  sea." 

A  faint  flush  appeared  over  his  high  cheek  bones.  He  gazed  at 
Chamberlayn,  and  spoke  in  a  winning,  almost  a  beseeching  voice. 
"  Can't  you  see  you  're  on  the  wrong  side?  "  he  said.  "  You  're 
young,  but  you  're  ranging  yourself  with  the  old  withered  men. 
You  just  won't  give  to  experience.  You  deny  the  evidence  your 
senses  bring  before  your  brain.  You  are  the  very  forces  that 
keep  the  world  in  chaos.  You  are  allied  with  the  men  who  see 
only  what  they  want  to  see,  because  it  would  be  bad  for  business 
if  they  saw  the  real  thing.  Just  let  me  describe  to  you  one  room- 
ful of  people  —  one  room  in  a  million  such  rooms.  It  is  in  a 
house  in  the  court  where  I  live.  There  are  six  people  in  it. 
They  eat,  sleep,  and  perform  every  act  of  life  in  full  view  of 
each  other.  Behind  that  screen  is  the  bed  where  the  father  and 
mother  sleep  with  the  two  youngest  children.  As  you  see,  the 
screen  is  dusty  and  full  of  holes  —  a  skeleton  of  a  screen.  When 
the  last  child  was  born  it  was  night  time.  The  man  went  and 
stood  outside  in  the  pouring  rain,  and  two  young  children  sat 
up  in  their  bed  to  watch  the  affair.  Next  day,  when  the  nurse 
went  in  to  wash  the  woman,  she  had  to  reach  across  the  man  to 
get  at  her.  He  was  on  a  night  shift  at  the  docks.  He  was  dog 
tired  and  it  was  his  bed.  His  wages,  by  the  way,  don't  keep 
his  family  even  in  that  one  room:  he  is  a  casual  laborer.  In 
strike  time,  he  blacklegs  until  he  dare  n't  do  it  any  longer.  The 
woman  goes  out  charring  most  days  a  week.  She  locks  the  chil- 
dren out,  and  last  year  one  of  them  was  knocked  down  and  killed 
in  the  gutter  by  a  dray.  That  made  room  for  the  next.  The 


56  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

eldest  girl  is  sixteen.  She  works  in  a  jam  factory.  Her  wages 
don't  keep  her:  she  makes  them  up  by  intermittent  prostitution. 
I  have  seen  her  sick  with  weariness." 

Kersent's  voice  was  suddenly  very  gentle.  "  Oh,"  he  said, 
"  you  think  I  've  taken  the  worst  place  I  ever  saw.  But  it  is  not 
so.  There  are  rooms  worse  than  that.  Rooms  where  girls  and 
boys  in  their  teens  have  to  share  a  bed.  Rooms  where  the  vermin 
eat  the  children.  I  don't  tell  you  of  these  things.  I  don't  want 
to  sicken  you."  The  pleading  in  his  voice  hurt  me.  I  wanted 
to  get  away  from  it.  We  listened  like  men  in  a  trance.  "  Don't 
you  see,"  he  said,  his  burning  eyes  still  fixed  on  Chamberlayn, 
"  don't  you  see  that  these  things  are  n't  accidents?  They  're  in- 
evitable: they  follow  directly  from  the  arrangement  of  the  world 
as  old,  old,  hide-bound  men  have  ordered  it.  They  are  in  the 
tradition!  The  tradition  breeds  cruelty.  You  can't  get  away 
from  it.  Your  beautiful  lawns  and  spacious  houses  are  built  on 
that  room.  The  hems  of  soft  white  gowns  are  spattered  in  blood. 
The  blood  and  the  cruelty  are  what  you  have  wished" 

Chamberlayn  cried  out  harshly.  "  Now  you  are  lying.  Now 
you  are  unjust.  Who  has  wished  it?  What  decent  man  would 
wish  such  things?  " 

He  seemed  to  appeal  to  the  rest  of  us. 

Kersent  laughed  softly.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair:  the 
mocking  ironical  note  was  back  in  his  voice. 

"  Now,  you  're  getting  beyond  me,"  he  said.  "  What  is  decency 
and  which  of  us  is  the  decent  man?  It  has  been  considered 
decent  to  eat  your  grandmother,  let  alone  marry  her.  Of  course, 
I  know  you  are  convinced  that  the  decencies  of  English  family 
life  were  ordained  by  God  on  a  hill  in  Palestine.  They  hang  in 
the  empyrean,  like  Plato's  Ideal  Values.  They  were  born  in 
full  Anglican  canonicals.  An  honorable  man  is  very  sound  on 
the  commandments.  He  bathes  in  cold  water  every  morning,  and 
morality  is  all  very  simple  and  fine  and  manly.  I  suppose  it 
is  —  for  you.  Black  is  black,  and  white  is  white,  and  you  know 
what  you  think,  eh?  Your  sort  of  mind  doesn't  run  any  risk 
of  mental  anguish  and  indecision.  The  throes  of  birth  are  the 
first  agony  it  will  have  to  endure,  and  most  likely  you  will  die 
before  reaching  that  disastrous  stage." 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  57 

Half  an  hour  later  we  were  jolting  across  Waterloo  Bridge  on 
the  bus.  "  I  should  n't  wonder,"  Mick  said,  "  if  I  dreamed  to- 
night that  I  was  skulking  about  outside  the  Garden  of  Eden  and 
the  angel  with  the  flaming  sword  had  a  moth-eaten  beard  and 
cleared  his  throat  in  a  horrid  shameless  fashion  before  wheezing 
at  me  to  move  on." 

I  stretched  myself  lazily.  "  Look  how  the  shadows  play  with 
the  little  pools  of  moonlight  in  the  water,  shaking  them  from  one 
hand  to  the  other,  making  patterns  and  breaking  them.  You 
would  n't  be  able  to  tell  that  there  was  a  moon  in  London  if  it 
were  n't  for  the  river." 


CHAPTER  XII 

KERSENT  told  us  of  the  days  when  he  studied  and  taught  to 
scrape  together  his  college  fees. 

"  I  loathed  teaching,"  he  said,  "  and  I  was  a  bad  teacher. 
The  sickening  repetition  of  it,  emptying  oneself  into  thirty  wrig- 
gling bodies  and  thirty  dull  minds.  I  could  n't  stand  it.  I  used 
to  lose  my  temper  and  be  sarcastic.  I  killed  what  bit  of  en- 
thusiasm they  had  for  their  work.  I  knew  I  was  doing  it,  but  I 
couldn't  help  it.  And  then  at  night,  raking  together  the  pieces 
of  my  brain,  I  tried  to  blow  life  and  eagerness  into  them.  I  have 
worked  till  the  gray  light  coming  over  the  blind  slit  itself  into 
a  hundred  stabbing  darts  that  pierced  my  head.  Crown  of 
thorns,  you  know.  I  used  to  reel  and  be  sick.  And  the  time  I 
wasted  over  useless  stuff!  I  had  no  help.  The  evening  classes 
were  no  use  to  me.  The  only  creature  I  could  ask  for  advice 
was  my  headmaster,  and  he  was  as  much  use  as  a  rotten  stick.  I 
suppose  he  had  had  some  education,  but  he  'd  either  forgotten 
it,  or  it  had  made  no  impression  on  him.  He  was  positively 
illiterate.  I  've  heard  him  say  to  a  boy  — '  Come  'ere,  you  young 
brat,  you.  I  '11  learn  you,  I  '11  make  an  exemplar  of  you.'  He 
did  his  best  for  me.  He  lent  me  a  debauched-looking  Shake- 
speare, and  he  used  to  recommend  me  vaguely  to  read  the  stand- 
ard works.  *  Get  a  groundwork,'  he  said.  '  Read  Green's  'istory, 
and  a  'istory  of  literytoor.  The  flummery  can  wait.'  I  went  to 
the  local  library  on  my  way  from  school,  and  chose  books  by 
their  titles.  As  like  as  not,  when  I  got  them  home,  they  were 
useless.  I  'd  read  them  all  the  same:  I  was  afraid  to  miss  one  of 
them  out.  I  did  n't  trust  myself  to  know  the  real  thing  when  I 
saw  it.  Now  and  then  I  'd  buy  a  book,  but  only  after  I  had  had 
a  good  look  through  it. 

"  I  '11  not  forget  going  into  a  West  End  book  shop  and  asking 
to  see  a  book  with  a  title  that  made  me  think  it  was  a  philosoph- 
ical treatise.  It  was  nothing  of  the  kind,  but  the  shop  was  so 
large  and  I  so  conscious  of  my  shabby  clothes  and  the  scornful 
assistant  that  I  bought  it.  Going  home  I  chucked  the  beastly 

58 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  59 

thing  in  the  gutter,  and  I  cried  and  sniffed  over  my  tea  to  think 
of  the  wasted  money." 

He  looked  at  us  with  his  gentle  smile.  "  Instructor  of  the 
young  in  tears  for  his  sins,"  he  said.  And  a  few  minutes  later, 
in  a  musing  tone  — "  I  'd  have  sold  my  soul  to  any  dull  devil  in 
those  days  for  a  little  decent  guidance." 

"  There  must  have  been  plenty  of  men  at  college  then  who  'd 
have  helped  you  gladly,"  I  said  rather  helplessly. 

"  Could  I  have  gone  and  asked  them?  " 

We  hung  for  a  minute  over  that. 

"  We  change,"  Kersent  mused,  "  but  our  environment  does  n't. 
Look  at  my  father.  In  his  village  he  lived  in  a  two-roomed, 
rose-grow.!*  hovel.  He  still  lives  in  two  rooms.  He  can't  imagine 
himself  in  any  better  place.  I  am  supposed  to  be  content  with 
the  same  two  rooms  —  or  at  most,  a  workman's  model  dwelling  — 
and  to  get  children  with  like  manageable  desires.  I  've  killed 
myself  because  my  desires  were  n't  manageable.  I  'm  a  freak,  a 
degenerate.  My  family  will  die  off  in  me.  The  world  has  no 
use  for  me  because  I  had  no  use  for  the  life  it  offered  me.  Down 
where  I  live,"  he  said  quietly,  "  there  are  thousands  of  men 
whose  desires  are  unmanageable  —  out  of  proportion  to  their 
station.  Don't  you  think  there  will  come  a  time  when  they  on 
their  part  will  have  no  use  for  the  world,  but  will  rise  and  destroy 
it,  good  and  bad  alike?  Rulers  shut  their  eyes  and  try  blind  pres- 
sure: the  keenest  of  them  make  little  safety  valves.  They  don't 
see  the  incredible  danger  they  are  courting.  They  '11  die  in  their 
blindness.  But  sooner  or  later  disaster  will  come:  one  way  or 
another  it  will  come.  They  say  men  will  perish  as  the  sun  grows 
cold.  The  poor  last  of  mankind,  savages  with  no  Renaissance 
below  the  iron  sky,  will  crouch  in  caves  until  the  last  human 
breath  goes  out  on  the  frigid  air.  For  my  part,  I  believe  that  if 
men  do  not  soon  awake  to  the  need  of  consciously  directing  their 
progress,  they  will  disappear  long  before  the  sun  does.  There 
will  be  more  and  more  men  like  me  —  freaks  with  unmanageable 
desires.  Until  in  the  end  the  desires  will  crack  and  destroy  the 
imperfect  life.  And  since  mankind  is  the  world's  greatest  dis- 
aster, I  don't  suppose  there  will  be  found  even  a  very  little  devil 
to  mourn  the  loss  of  Balder,  the  hairless  ape  .  .  ." 


0 


CHAPTER  XIII 

NCE,  on  his  way  from  college,  Kersent  saw  a  young  girl  step 
V,  clumsily  from  a  moving  'bus.  She  fell  sideways  with  a 
sprained  ankle.  He  took  her  to  her  home  in  Leyton,  and  had 
from  her  an  awkward  letter  of  thanks  and  an  invitation  to  tea. 
He  forgot  the  letter.  Finding  it  two  months  later  between  the 
pages  of  a  book,  he  felt  an  impulse  to  make  apologies.  He  called 
at  the  house  in  Leyton,  and  was  received  with  pleasure  and  re- 
proach. 

The  girl's  name  was  Ruth.  She  taught  in  an  elementary  school. 
Her  mother  had  been  a  rheumatic  cripple  for  many  years,  and 
her  father  was  writing  a  book  on  sylphs.  He  explained  to 
Kersent  that  the  air  was  inhabited  by  several  orders  of  beings, 
of  whom  the  sylphs  were  the  lowest  and  least  intelligent.  They 
were  none  the  less  attractive,  and  their  stupidity  was  only  relative 
to  their  celestial  nature.  In  reality,  their  intelligence  was  so 
little  superior  to  our  own  that  men  could  hold  profitable  con- 
verse with  them.  An  older  sister  shared  with  Ruth  the  privilege 
of  supporting  the  sylphomaniac  and  his  wife. 

Kersent  made  several  calls  at  the  house.  He  had  discovered 
in  himself  an  undeveloped  vanity.  He  played  with  Ruth's  ad- 
miration as  Montaigne  with  his  cat,  and  had  the  same  question- 
ing satisfaction  therein.  Ruth  became  his  mistress.  Her  mother 
regarded  the  situation  with  sardonic  amusement.  Her  father,  his 
eyes  turned  celestially,  remained  in  ignorance  of  it.  The  sylph 
morality  was  itself  so  doubtful  that  there  is  no  need  to  suppose 
his  disapproval. 

Kersent  forgot  the  girl  for  months  together.  Remembering 
her  at  odd  times,  he  would  take  himself  to  the  house  at  Leyton 
for  a  week-end.  He  found  her  always  the  same,  placidly  re- 
proachful of  his  neglect,  placidly  happy  in  his  remembrance. 

I  had  tea  with  them  once  at  Ruth's  home.  The  mother  sat  in 
her  chair,  a  shapeless  hulk  of  clothes,  topped  by  a  smooth  pink 

<m 


60 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  61 

face.  She  seemed  to  have  sucked  in  cheerfulness  from  every 
other  member  of  the  family.  She  thrust  her  barbed  wit  at  Ker- 
sent,  and  treated  Ruth  with  contemptuous  kindliness.  I  thought 
that  she  had  said  to  herself  — "  Since  I  cannot  go  to  the  play,  I 
will  have  the  play  staged  on  my  own  hearthstone,  but  it  is  a  poor 
show  after  all,  and  poorly  acted.  If  I  were  not  there  myself, 
how  bored  I  should  be." 

The  older  sister  was  eaten  up  by  hatred  of  Kersent.  She  could 
hardly  look  at  him  in  patience,  but  flitted  about  the  room,  glower- 
ing upon  him  from  unexpected  angles.  This  also  amused  the 
mother,  and  her  amusement  awoke  a  dumb  rage  in  the  girl's  eyes. 

I  sfid  not  at  this  time  understand  Kersent's  relations  with  Ruth, 
but  I  guessed  at  them.  Later  in  the  evening,  a  paunchy,  middle- 
aged  man  came  in  and  sat  staring  at  her  with  an  air  miserably 
indulgent  of  her  caprice.  He  was  a  chemist.  He  appeared  to 
be  suffering  tortures,  and  the  sardonic  cripple  in  the  rocking- 
chair  aggravated  them  with  skilful  spite.  I  began  to  see  things 
clearly. 

The  father  tried  to  talk  to  Kersent.  "  How  goes  philosophy 
these  days?  "  he  said  absently.  "  Sweet  philosophy,  the  pastime 
of  the  gods." 

His  wife  nodded  her  head.  "  Oh,  don't  ask  him  that.  He 
finds  her  the  rarest  mistress  in  the  world.  She  never  complains 
and  he  never  neglects  her."  She  chuckled  and  rocked. 

Ruth  blushed,  and  her  sister  trotted  agitatedly  round  the  room. 

Kersent  smiled  at  the  rocking  malice.  He  never  resented  nor 
retorted  upon  her.  A  tenuous  affection  existed  between  them.  I 
felt  suddenly  that  the  mocking  elf  in  the  twisted  body  was  some- 
how kin  to  the  smiling  elf  of  irony  in  Kersent.  I  had  the  pre- 
posterous idea  that  Kersent  had  made  Ruth  his  mistress  because 
it  amused  her  mother. 

"What  makes  you  think  philosophy  a  woman?  "  he  said. 

She  twisted  her  face  into  a  grimacing  mask.  "  Who  but  a 
woman  would  draw  so  infatuated  a  host  of  lovers?  " 

"  Circe  — "  her  husband  began. 

"  Circe  made  swine  of  her  lovers,"  she  interrupted,  "  though  it 
would  have  been  more  fitting  if  she  'd  made  them  goats  and  apes. 
La  Filosofia  takes  out  her  lovers'  hearts  and  turns  their  brains 


62  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

into  wheels  to  spin  the  moonshine.  Oh,  a  very  fine  sorceress. 
Don't  tell  me  the  gods  made  a  pastime  of  her.  They  had  more 
sense  on  Olympus." 

"Juno—" 

She  flung  up  her  hands.     "  Don't  talk  to  me  about  the  hussy." 

At  eight  o'clock  the  chemist  sighed  heavily  and  prepared  to  go. 

**  Good-night,"  she  said,  and  — "  Since  you  can't  cure  me, 
couldn't  you  make  me  a  little  simple  thing  like  a  love-philter?  " 

"Ah,  if  only  I  could!" 

She  laughed  delightedly  at  his  face  of  a  stricken  cow. 

I  left  soon  afterwards,  but  Kersent  stayed  on. 

He  did  not  visit  Ruth  for  some  months.  Then  she  wrote  to 
him.  She  was  to  undergo  a  small  operation,  and  with  half- 
pitiful  cunning,  tried  to  call  up  a  tragic  vision.  He  showed  me 
the  letter. 

"  My  dear,"  she  wrote,  "  I  do  not  at  all  think  I  shall  die.  But, 
sometimes  I  suppose  these  things  go  wrong.  I  would  not  like 
to  think  —  as  I  went  under  the  chloroform  —  that  I  had  hidden 
anything  from  you.  If  I  were  to  die  .  .  .  Sometimes,  when  I 
think  of  you,  you  seem  a  stranger,  who  has  come  coldly  into  my 
life,  and  taken  all  I  had  to  give.  You  have  taken  it  almost  with- 
out recognizing  the  gift.  You  come,  and  I  have  you,  and  then 
you  go  again  for  weeks  and  months.  At  first,  when  you  never 
came  and  never  wrote,  I  thought  I  should  go  mad.  I  tried  to 
pretend  that  I  had  never  known  you,  but  I  could  n't  do  that.  I 
couldn't  be  the  old  Ruth.  The  new  Ruth  was  restless  and  dis- 
satisfied. I  went  about  my  work  on  fire  for  you.  There  came  a 
time  when,  if  I  had  wished,  I  might  have  taken  the  easiest  way  to 
forget  you.  There  is  no  need  for  me  to  write  the  man's  name. 
He  did  not  count  with  me.  But  one  night  I  sat  with  him  in  the 
firelight.  His  eyes  were  on  me.  I  felt  a  madness  creeping  over 
my  limbs.  Just  for  a  minute,  I  gave  way  to  wicked  desires.  I  had 
only  to  lift  my  eyes  .  .  .  Oh,  it  was  only  a  mood,  but  I  had  to 
tell  you  of  it  —  now.  I  ran  away  and  left  him.  He  never 
knew—" 

I  gave  Kersent  the  letter.     "  Poor  Ruth." 

"  Don't  you  see  the  magnificent  insincerity?  "  he  said  quietly. 
"She'd  never  have  so  accurately  remembered  a  mere  mood,  if 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  63 

there  had  n't  been  something  bigger  connected  with  it.  I  daresay 
she  invented  the  whole  tale,  so  that  by  confessing  to  a  passing 
desire  she  would  get  relief  for  some  —  treachery  —  that  she 
dare  n't  confess.  Treachery  is  a  silly  word.  But  I  wonder  who 
it  was.  The  chemist,  I  suppose.  Her  mother  would  know.  How 
the  old  satyr  must  have  reveled  in  it!  She  might  have  shared 
the  jest." 

He  did  not  go  near  Ruth  again.  Even  when  her  mother  died 
he  did  not  go.  He  seemed  to  resent  the  old  woman's  miserly 
treatment  of  him  in  the  matter  of  that  jest  she  had  not  shared. 
"  She~will  laugh  to  find  herself  free  of  her  old  hulk  of  a  body," 
he  said,  and  added  grudgingly  — "  I  'm  sorry  she  died." 

I  had  forgotten  them,  and  remember  them  now  so  well  that  I 
am  reluctant  to  let  them  go.  They  have  waited  so  long  for  me 
to  blow  life  into  them  again  —  gentle  Ruth,  and  her  vengeful 
sister,  and  the  laughing  cripple,  and  even  the  chemist. 

I  regret  particularly  the  chemist,  that  good,  paunchy  man, 
for  I  am  convinced  that  he  is  full  of  citizen-like  virtues  and 
votes  on  the  right  side  in  elections. 

I  do  not  think  that  Kersent  ever  loved  anything  in  his  life  — 
unless  it  were  the  jade  Humanity. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

I  HAVE  tried  to  explain  what  we  owed  to  the  accident  of  spend- 
ing our  student  days  in  London.  At  first,  no  doubt,  we  were 
simply  bewildered  provincials.  We  wandered  up  Southampton 
Row  into  the  yellow,  greasy  squalor  of  Euston  Road  and  through 
that  to  the  big  houses  round  Regents'  Park.  We  could  not  see 
how  either  endured  the  existence  of  the  other.  Beyond  Ealing 
Common  we  came  upon  miles  and  miles  of  horrible  villas,  full 
of  black,  frock-coated  little  animals  and  incredible,  scurrying 
hordes  of  their  mates,  fed  from  the  ill-stocked,  fly-haunted,  dusty 
shops  of  shopkeepers  who  cannot  afford  even  to  be  clean.  And 
then,  all  about  Hyde  Park  and  Kensington  Gardens,  the  great 
houses  with  their  hierarchies  of  attendants,  maids,  valets,  hair- 
dressers, and  a  few  steps  away,  jewelers,  florists,  court  dress- 
makers—  all  the  busy,  elaborate  machinery  that  turns  and  turns 
and  makes  nothing  at  all.  We  boggled  at  the  chaotic  immensity 
of  wealthy  London  and  the  anti-climax  of  the  east  end,  trailing 
furtively  to  the  docks  and  the  gray  river. 

We  had  peculiar  opportunities  to  cultivate  our  intellectual 
snobbery.  Chamberlayn's  father  was  the  most  poverty-stricken 
Duke  in  England.  The  Cleveland  estate  was  let  to  Lacquered 
Goods;  the  St.  James'  house  was  sold,  lock,  stock,  and  barrel 
to  an  American  who  got  a  bad  bargain,  for  the  vast,  inconvenient 
basement  was  eaten  up  with  cockroaches,  and  not  one  of  the 
pictures  was  genuine.  Even  the  Adams  fireplace  was  a  fake. 

The  Duke  kept  for  himself  a  dark  little  house  in  one  of  the 
byeways  of  Mayfair,  and  he  did  not  often  use  that.  A  cousin 
of  fabulous  age  lived  in  it,  and  behind  closed  windows  preserved 
carefully  an  atmosphere  of  dried  rose  leaves  and  old  leather. 
The  Duke  himself  had  two  rooms  in  an  hotel  in  Liverpool,  and 
there  he  posed  for  incoming  Americans.  He  came  to  the  Kensing- 
ton cottage  now  and  then.  The  old  satyr  had  taken  a  fancy  to 
Margaret.  He  was  kind  to  us  and  took  us  into  houses  we  should 

64 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  65 

not  have  seen  without  him.  Doors  opened  to  that  raddled  old 
sinner  that  were  still  closed  to  the  Lacquered  Goods  and  the  Beer 
Barons.  And  the  more  we  saw,  the  more  we  were  perplexed  and 
doubtful.  What  possible  scheme  of  life,  what  high  vision  could 
sweep  in  and  hold  together  the  complacent  stupidity  of  Putney 
and  the  starved,  instinctive  stupidity  of  Bethnal  Green? 

We  had  been  too  well  and  truly  brought  up  not  to  know  that 
it  was  our  duty  to  feel  like  this  about  London. 

It  was,  after  all,  the  Duke  who  played  Lucina  to  our  laboring 
minds.  There  was  some  vague  talk  of  Disestablishment,  and  he 
had  cotfife  up,  he  said,  to  flagellate  the  Bishops.  He  was  standing 
gloomily  regarding  the  imitation  stone  facade  of  his  house  in 
St.  James'  when  I  made  some  careless  remark  on  his  attitude  to 
the  Church.  He  surprised  me  by  a  queer,  cracked  vehemence. 
"  The  traitors,"  he  said,  "  the  filthy,  time-serving  traitors.  Look 
at  my  house,  given  over  to  nasal  snobs,  and  my  birds  being  shot 
at  picnic  parties  with  champagne  and  giggling  women.  There 
was  a  time  when  the  Church  and  the  old  families  ran  together. 
We  boosted  them  up,  and  they  made  us  out  a  little  lower  than 
the  Almighty.  Then  you  knew  where  you  were:  we  were  the  top 
and  head  of  the  building.  People  looked  up  to  us.  We  had  the 
books  and  the  pictures  and  the  fine  houses  and  the  parks.  Things 
centered  on  us.  All  these  Beer  and  Buns  people  knew  their  places 
then.  We  were  respected.  And  before  you  knew  where  you  were, 
beastly  little  houses  shot  up  at  your  very  doors  and  the  towns  ran 
amuck  all  over  the  country  with  factories  and  business  houses, 
and  working-men's  clubs  and  bed  and  breakfast  for  five  bob  in- 
cluding the  palm  court  and  hot  water  installed  in  all  the  bed- 
rooms." 

I  tried  to  get  him  back  to  the  Anglican  treachery.  "What 
they  done?  "  he  said.  "  Well,  what  han't  they  done?  Traf- 
ficking with  Socialists.  Letting  up  on  hell-fire.  Encouraging 
grocers  and  bank  clerks  to  think  their  souls  as  good  as  mine. 
Hobnobbin'  with  Beer  and  Buns,  and  all  because  the  money  was 
slipping  into  their  hands  and  they  were  sneaking  into  our  houses 
and  peacocking  around  in  our  clothes.  They  've  got  the  top 
story  now,  but  there  ain't  any  bottom  to  it.  The  bottom  's  fallen 
out,  only  they  don't  know  it,  going  parrotting  away  above  thore, 


66  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

thinking  no  'un  could  tell  them  from  us.  After  a  bit  the  Bishops 
'ull  fall  through,  and  then  Beer  and  Buns  on  top  of  'em,  splosh 
on  their  great  bellies,  God  be  thanked." 

Strange  rhetorical  noises  rose  in  his  throat  and  strangled  his 
speech.  It  balked  and  then  came  with  a  fine  sweep.  "  After 
the  old  nobility  the  Church  will  go,  and  after  the  Church  the 
ignobility  of  Beer  and  Bluff."  He  seemed  pleased  with  the 
phrase,  and  I  discovered  afterwards  that  he  was  quoting  from  an 
article  he  had  written  in  a  penny  weekly  of  the  baser  class.  He 
did  this  sort  of  thing,  and  he  also  sat  on  Welfare  Committees 
and  Maternity  Centers  and  things  of  that  kind.  They  had  his 
aristocratic  company  and  he  had  a  good  lunch  and  expenses 
allowed.  One  of  them  cut  down  the  expenses  to  half  and  there 
were  actually  tears  in  the  poor  old  scoundrel's  eyes  when  he 
told  us. 

There  was  not  a  little  mental  humbugging  in  our  concern  with 
the  sociological  aspect  of  London,  due,  I  daresay,  to  a  too  pro- 
longed course  in  sociological  novels  and  pamphlets  thrust  upon 
us  when  our  minds  were  at  their  most  impressionable  stage. 

We  developed  a  kind  of  imaginative  Fabianism.  We  insisted 
on  pigeon-holing  London,  and  regarding  our  intellectual  sleight- 
of-hand  as  an  achievement. 

The  structure  of  things,  and  all  the  outward  show,  belongs  to 
the  eighteenth  century.  The  big  estates  are  still  there,  fenced 
off.  The  shops  still  make  pretense  of  catering  for  exclusive 
tastes.  The  thing  looks  the  same  —  dignified  Churchmen,  fine 
ladies,  subtler  and  subtler  private  magnificences  —  but  the  heart 
is  gone  out  of  it.  It  means  nothing  now.  The  powers  above, 
that  stood  in  our  sight  once  for  national  traditions  and  a  fine 
spacious  outlook,  stand  now  for  nothing  but  profits  squeezed  from 
common  needs,  kept  up  by  newspaper  jingoisms  and  shameless 
scheming  and  self-advertisements.  The  new  powers  have  scram- 
bled into  castles  and  Mayfair  houses  that  are  built  out  over — f 
nothing.  The  older  feudal  hierarchy  of  class  has  crumbled  away 
beneath  them.  Below  the  white-sleeved  bishops  are  now  only 
empty  churches  and  indifferent,  scornful  crowds:  below  Beer  and 
Buns  an  ever-increasing  and  incalculable  ferment  of  discontents, 
strivings,  and  insecure  pretenses. 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  67 

We  could  see  also  a  lateral  cleavage  in  the  general  upheaval 
and  subsidence  of  the  social  revolution  that  followed  the  in- 
dustrial one  and  shook  our  old  Duke  from  his  great  house  and 
his  feudal  security. 

The  line  of  partition  runs  somewhere  through  the  middle 
classes.  Above  it  are  what  are  called  the  upper  middle  classes, 
fairly  prosperous  families,  employing  three  or  four  or  more 
servants,  professional  men,  secretaries,  clerks  of  the  nobler  sort. 
These  believe  in  Beer  and  Buns  as  those  mighty  ones  do  not 
believejn  themselves,  work  for  Beer  and  Buns,  draw  salaries  and 
philosophies  therefrom.  Their  wives  join  in  the  conspiracy  to 
assume  the  permanence  of  Beer  and  Buns,  dress  themselves  to 

look  more  like  Beer  than  Lady  B does,  take  in  illustrated 

papers  which  show  them  how  to  achieve  the  Beer  effect  at  an 
infinitesimal  fraction  of  the  Beer  income,  talk  Beer,  court  and 
marry  and  pray  Beer;  assume,  in  fact,  that  the  only  difference 
between  them  and  Beer  is  an  illusory  and  non-essential  difference 
of  money,  always  capable  of  readjustment  by  some  lucky  accident 
or  unforseen  opportunity,  Putney  and  Croydon  and  Dulwich  are 
all  given  over  to  this  Beer  cult.  We  traced  it  down  through  less 
and  less  pretentious  suburbs  and  more  pitiful,  shoddy,  and  spirit- 
less reflections  of  Beer  until  we  arrived  again  at  the  crushing 
vulgarity  of  Ealing.  And  we  wondered  whether  they  would  all 
perish  with  Beer,  loyal  and  slow-witted  devotees,  or  save  them- 
selves at  the  last. 

Below  the  line  of  cleavage  comes  a  vast  mass  of  men  and 
women  moving  slowly  towards  a  sharper  and  more  conscious 
antagonism  to  Beer.  The  shams  and  affectations  of  those  others 
simply  do  not  exist  in  their  ungracious  and  unlovely  lives.  They 
keep  themselves  in  a  grim  respectability,  too  near  the  under- 
world to  forget  the  need  of  that.  They  are  as  intensely  stupid 
as  the  others,  and  even  more  bigoted  and  warped  in  spirit. 

And  yet,  nothing  more  important  has  happened  to  the  human 
race  since  the  first  speck  of  life  moved  and  moved  again,  creep- 
ing blindly  in  the  mud,  than  is  happening  now  in  the  restless 
stirrings  of  these  very  lives,  lived  without  leisure  or  security  or 
any  beautiful  and  spacious  thing.  Half  unaware  of  their  power, 
too  often  thwarted  and  led  wrong  by  craven  and  interested 


68  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

guides,  they  invite  and  get  no  help  save  from  a  handful  of  men, 
longer-sighted  or  less  class-loyal  than  their  kind.  Your  palpably 
loyal  and  healthy-minded  citizen,  glancing  reluctantly  at  what 
he  calls  the  masses,  distinguishes  between  the  commendably 
thrifty  and  the  wantonly  agitated  and  perverse.  Farther  than 
that  he  dare  not  go,  without  grave  risk  to  his  mental  health.  It 
might  even  become  necessary  for  him  to  think. 

And  we  looked  at  these  thwarted,  strenuous  lives  and  had  the 
preposterous,  childish  audacity  to  sneer  at  them.  We  sat  up 
o'  nights  and  wondered  what  sort  of  a  social  order  would  be 
fathered  by  uneducated  slaves  and  sponsored  by  labor  leaders. 
To  be  sure,  we  swung  later,  in  the  inspiration  of  the  Scheme, 
to  an  enthusiasm  as  ill-advised  as  our  scorn.  Not  that  there  was 
any  scanting  in  the  advice  thrust  upon  us.  The  Scheme  was 
indeed  near  suffocated  and  over-lain  by  advice. 


CHAPTER  XV 

YOU  would  be  grievously  misled  if  you  imagined  that  we 
spent  the  whole  of  our  time  wandering  round  London  in  a 
state  of  intellectual  frenzy. 

We  folind  it  difficult  to  get  rid  of  a  suspicion  that  we  were 
rather  priggishly-minded  in  this  social  concern  of  ours.  It  did 
not  preclude  an  enjoyment  of  life  that  might  find  expression  in 
kicking  a  tin  can  all  the  way  through  the  tarnished  gentility  of 
Denmark  Hill  to  Camberwell  Green,  or  set  us  scouring  London 
for  a  cheap  copy  of  a  coveted  book,  or  keep  us  on  our  weary 
feet  at  promenade  concerts  or  rare  first  nights.  But  it  filled 
our  thoughts  to  an  extraordinary  extent. 

I  suppose  it  takes  as  sharp  a  hold  upon  the  thoughts  of  long- 
thinking  youth  in  any  condition  of  life.  But  when  youth  seeks 
a  legitimate  outlet  for  his  desire  of  service  there  is  none  to  his 
hand.  The  socialist  societies  of  the  day  offer  about  as  much 
attraction  to  his  eagerness  as  a  spent  fire-balloon.  Either  he 
comes  to  them  bearing  his  own  fire,  to  burn  itself  out  in  an  unin- 
telligent huckstering  of  socialism  in  barren  places.  Or  else  he 
falls  to  wandering  through  his  days  in  a  fever  of  discontent, 
bemusing  himself  with  a  sociology  borrowed  from  his  reading, 
until  the  fever  leaves  him  or  is  transmuted  into  something  of 
more  value  to  Trade.  It  is  not  given  to  many  of  us  to  marry 
money,  enter  Parliament,  and  inaugurate  the  Endowment  of 
Motherhood. 

The  fever  and  the  desire  to  serve  existed  once  in  the  most 
respectable  of  us.  Then  how  amazingly  potent  must  be  those 
social  forces  that  make  decent,  orderly,  obtuse  and  bat-eyed 
citizens  of  the  ninety  and  nine  of  us!  At  what  point  does  a 
man  begin  to  pass  from  aching  dissatisfaction  with  the  injustice 
that  obese  old  men  call  social  progress  to  the  for-god's-sake-hold- 
your-tongue-and-let-me-live  attitude  of  successful  middle-age? 
Does  age  bring  about  the  happy  change,  or  success,  or  the  blind, 

69 


70  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

fearful  pressure  of  the  innumerable  dead  who  struggled  and 
failed  before  us,  of  the  burdens  we  take  on  us  —  wives,  children, 
houses,  brick-dust  and  dirt?  Is  it  because  we  are  so  timorous 
in  the  face  of  posterity  that  we  go  on  introducing  it  into  a  dull 
and  searing  insecurity  rather  than  outrage  the  decencies  of 
modern  life  by  telling  the  truth  about  it? 

We  would  rather  be  left  in  the  filth  we  are  used  to  than  adven- 
ture on  an  untried  road  with  our  train  of  helpless  dependents. 
And  so  we  rend  the  unbalanced  altruist:  and  so  we  tell  our 
earnest  young  men  — "  Ah,  I  thought  so  at  your  age,  but  when 
you  get  to  mine,  you  will  have  other  things  to  think  about  than 
Utopias  " —  and,  gazing  upon  our  deflated  enthusiasms  over  an 
acquired  convexity  of  frontage,  we  puff  and  wheeze  ourselves 
to  bed. 

Even  Mick  felt  the  weight  of  the  aged  impotence  that  presses  on 
every  department  of  life,  from  the  instinctive  lisping  of  folk-lore 
to  the  accepted  misinterpretations  of  history  and  the  smearing 
of  beauty  by  scuffling  moralities.  At  the  height  of  our  earnest- 
ness we  were  pricked  by  a  dread  of  making  fools  of  ourselves. 
We  did  not  want  to  appear  priggish  .  .  .  We  had  caught  the 
prevailing  English  horror  of  appearing  to  think  about  things. 
In  England,  marks  of  the  effort  of  thought  are  commonly  held 
to  be  undignified  and  unnecessary  —  almost  indecent.  Your 
well-bred  politician  producing  his  reforms  —  poor  things  that 
they  are  —  does  so  in  an  offhand,  gentlemanly  way  — "  a  little 
thing  I  thought  of  in  an  odd  half-hour."  A  man  may  rob  and 
starve  his  fellow-men,  thwart  them  of  every  joyous  and  beautiful 
thing,  cheat  them  by  lying  hopes  of  heavenly  bliss,  ruin  and 
spoil  and  demoralize,  and  be  rewarded  for  it  by  the  emulative 
respect  of  godly  folk.  But  let  him  attempt  to  expose  his  fellows 
to  the  horrid  anguish  of  thought,  or  drag  Truth  indecent  from 
her  decent  well,  and  there  is  an  end  of  him,  so  far  as  this  world 
goes. 

Or,  for  the  matter  of  that,  any  other  world  peopled  by  the 
spirits  of  our  neighbors.  Sad  that  we  are  all  fated  to  be  neigh- 
bored by  thick-skinned  stupidity! 

Should  he  have  the  good  fortune  to  live  until  his  ideas  are 
stale  and  stingless,  he  may  found  a  self-explanatory  society  or 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  71 

edit  a  review,  and  finu  himself  taken  seriously  when  it  no  longer 
matters  whether  he  rot  above  or  below  ground. 

Or,  like  Mr.  Shaw,  he  may  disguise  his  earnestness  by  doing 
his  own  clowning.  Or  wink  behind  his  gravity  at  his  friends  — 
like  any  successful  politician  —  returning  to  the  rich  man  in 
private  what  he  has  taken  from  him  in  public,  an  amiable  and 
harmless  Robin  Hood.  But  to  be  in  earnest,  in  or  out  of  Parlia- 
ment, without  mitigating  your  madness  by  humor  or  mellow- 
ing it  by  compromise,  is  to  stand  self-accused  of  lack  of  breeding 
and  an  undisciplined  mind. 

In  our  ramblings  round  London,  in  our  flushed  and  arrogant 
earnestness,  we  made  the  absurd  and  inevitable  mistakes  of  in- 
experience". But  where  the  border-line  between  the  earnest  and 
the  priggish  becomes  shadowy,  did  we  not  save  ourselves  when 
we  took  refuge  in  the  Scheme?  I  believe  we  did.  Let  us  say 
that  we  did.  We  did  not  stop  at  words:  we  made  an  effort  that 
was  not  entirely  futile,  though  there  is  little  to  see  now  of  aught 
it  did.  "  Thoughts  like  swords  — "  Margaret  said,  hesitated,  and 
left  the  phrase  in  a  winged  uncertainty.  I  believe  the  world  has 
especial  need  of  thoughts  like  swords.  In  our  fumbling  eager- 
ness we  were  trying  to  think  clean  through  perplexities  that  have 
baffled  better  heads  than  ours,  broken  better  men.  We  made  all 
kinds  of  fools  of  ourselves,  but  on  the  whole  I  am  not  ashamed 
of  our  follies. 

It  was  inevitable  that  we  should  fall  into  follies  other  than  the 
folly  of  believing  in  the  possibility  of  social  justice.  I  fell  among 
the  Jews,  you  remember  —  who  were  kinder  to  me  than  I  merited. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

LONDON  dominated  Mick  from  the  first.  Night  after  night 
he  prowled  about  the  streets,  east  to  the  docks,  west  to  the 
swirling  vibrant  life  of  Regent  Street  and  Piccadilly.  Sometimes 
it  excited  him  and  he  would  come  home  and  talk,  waving  his  arms 
about:  at  other  times  he  returned  tired  and  depressed.  During 
his  first  year  he  worked  desperately  hard,  but  discovering  soon 
that  he  was  far  and  away  the  best  of  the  Physics  men,  he  gave 
way  to  fits  of  unbroken  indolence. 

He  would  sit  in  the  easiest  chair  with  one  leg  over  the  arm,  his 
vile,  bubbly  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  abuse  Bergson  and  the  Sidney 
Webbs  until  I  had  to  take  my  books  and  study  upstairs.  He 
made  of  science  a  kind  of  fairyland  through  which  his  mind 
trailed  clouds  of  iridescent  speculation  and  thrust  pathways  to 
the  stars. 

He  wasted  our  time  as  well  as  his  own,  for  he  had  a  knack  of 
inveigling  attention  for  the  wildest  of  the  schemes  and  notions 
that  flourished  in  his  brain.  I  do  not  mean  that  he  was  one  of 
your  scientific  dilettantes,  dabbling  in  a  kitchen  chemistry  or 
scraping  up  enough  biology  to  produce  horrid  hybrid  psychol- 
ogies of  the  pithecoid  type.  He  had  a  deeper  and  infinitely 
more  intelligent  knowledge  of  his  work  than  that  of  the  ordi- 
nary clever  student.  His  professors  were  gravely  encouraging. 
Towards  the  end  of  his  third  year  they  promised  a  scholarship 
at  Cambridge,  and  later  still  the  idea  of  a  Fellowship  appeared 
from  somewhere  and  took  a  definite  place  in  his  vision  of  the 
future.  There  seemed  to  be  no  limit  to  the  success  he  might 
achieve  if  only  he  did  not  abandon  himself  to  one  of  the  whims 
that  took  periodic  hold  on  his  imagination. 

At  one  time  he  agreed  with  a  wealthy  agricultural  student  that 
they  would  emigrate  to  California  and  a  fruit  farm,  to  grow  the 
fruit  of  gods  in  electrified  soil.  Their  plans  were  minutely  elab- 
orated before  Mick  wearied  of  the  scheme. 

Another  caprice  almost  ended  badly.  I  wonder  how  many 

72 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  73 

people  knew  or  remember  Bronterre  Gascoyne?  He  was  'that 
hairy,  wild  Irishman  who  burst  upon  London  society  from  some 
remote  Atlantic  creek.  With  several  rich  women,  an  odd  Duchess 
or  two,  and  a  few  men  a  little  less  mad  than  himself,  he  took  a 
suite  of  rooms  in  a  west  end  hotel  and  prepared  to  open  com- 
munications with  the  guardian  spirits  of  the  next  world.  He 
seemed  to  know  them  intimately.  I  forget  where  Mick  met  him  — 
probably  at  some  house  where  he  had  gone  with  Jack  Chamber- 
layn  and  the  Duke.  He  flung  himself  into  the  old  maniac's 
schemes  with  enthusiasm,  and  readily  agreed  to  converse  with 
Aldabeezar  III,  the  Guardian  of  the  Lintel.  For  a  whole  fort- 
night he>.fasted  on  a  rusk  and  a  glass  of  water  a  day.  Then 
Gascoyne  dosed  him  with  some  drug  that  took  instantaneous  and 
fearful  effect  upon  him.  He  told  us  afterwards  that  he  seemed 
to  be  thinking  at  an  incredible  rate.  His  thoughts  mounted  up 
in  a  spiral  of  white  flame  to  a  point  of  dazzling  light,  and  there 
burst  into  fiery  rays. 

The  onlookers  saw  nothing  but  the  rapid  dilation  of  Mick's 
pupils  until  his  face  was  a  white  mask  with  eyes  that  burned  in 
their  sockets.  Then  he  flung  up  his  arms  and  dropped  like  a 
stone.  He  was  still  unconscious  when  they  brought  him  home. 
We  called  in  a  doctor  who  accused  us  in  his  bewilderment  of 
making  fool  experiments  with  some  stuff  from  a  college  lab. 
We  had  time  to  become  half-crazed  with  anxiety  before  Mick 
recovered  and  struggled  to  sit  up. 

"  Well,  I  '11  be  damned,"  he  said,  as  light  came  slowly  back. 
"  When  I  get  used  to  that  stuff  I  '11  be  able  to  live  in  the  next 
era  and  think  in  Mars.  Those  Guardian  Spirits  are  the  boys, 
take  my  word  for  it." 

Bronterre  Gascoyne  died  three  months  later,  just  in  time  to 
escape  a  madhouse.  Mick  bought  himself  a  black  tie  and  a 
black,  watered  silk  ribbon  for  his  eyeglass. 

"  I  'm  sorry  he 's  dead,"  he  said.  "  He  was  an  interesting 
beast,  but  altogether  too  optimistic  for  this  world." 

It  was  during  the  fortnight  of  fasting  and  initiation  that 
Mick's  Physics  lecturer  stopped  me  in  the  upper  corridor  of 
King's.  He  made  a  few  wandering  remarks,  eyeing  me  absently 
the  while,  and  then  came  abruptly  to  his  point. 


74  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

"  I  wish  you  'd  drop  a  word  in  season  to  that  brother  of  yours, 
Hearne.  He  's  quite  a  good  man  —  I  might  say,  an  exceptionally 
good  man.  But  there 's  an  idea  getting  about  that  he 's  not 
Sound.  It 's  fatal,  of  course,  for  an  idea  like  that  to  get  about 
among  the  people  who  can  do  things  for  him.  If  he  wants  to 
get  on  he  must  be  Sound,  and  he  must  let  them  know  that  he  is. 
If  you  can  drop  a  hint  —  he  'd  take  it  better  from  you.  Most 
interesting,  these  new  experiments  of  Sir  Julian's.  What  d'  you 
say?  "  He  turned  and  stalked  nervously  away. 

I  repeated  the  conversation  to  Mick.  He  opened  his  eyes  and 
smiled  like  a  young  cat. 

"  He  's  a  kind  soul,  is  Sanday,  and  sound  —  oh,  enormously 
sound.  All  his  vital  juices,  if  he  has  any,  drain  off  into  scientific 
and  professional  channels.  He  couldn't  tell  a  woman  from  a 
tripod,  if  you  presented  them  to  him  offhand.  Do  you  know, 
when  Dr.  Jane  Joyce  came  into  the  lab.  for  the  first  time,  he 
thought  she  was  the  new  lab.  boy,  and  shoved  a  lot  of  crocks 
at  her  to  wash.  She  put  them  down  in  a  high  old  rage  and  was 
flouncing  off  when  he  caught  sight  of  her  petticoats.  What 
does  the  old  dear  do  but  conclude  she  's  a  medical  masquerade ! 
He  hustles  her  out  of  the  lab.  with  much  withering  sarcasm 
about  female  graces,  and  comes  back  rubbing  his  skinny  hands. 
*  I  'm  very  short-sighted,  gentlemen,'  he  croaked,  *  but  not  so 
short-sighted  as  that.'  Joynes  says  the  old  girl  reported  Sanday 
for  obscene  and  indecent  conduct  and  that  he  had  to  crawl  on 
his  stomach  to  put  things  right,  but  Joynes  is  a  bit  of  a  liar. 
Last  week  I  found  the  old  fellow  fumbling  with  his  key  at  the 
door  of  the  lab.  *  Is  that  you,  Hearne?  '  says  he,  stuttering  and 
blinking  round  at  me.  *  I  can't  find  the  key-hole  at  all.'  Oho, 
thinks  I,  the  old  Adam's  kicking  at  last:  we'll  make  a  man  of 
him  yet.  He 's  as  drunk  as  a  Duke.  But  he  was  n't,  you  know. 
He  was  just  dazed  for  want  of  sleep:  he'd  been  working  day 
and  night  for  seven  days,  without  a  break  except  for  an  odd  meal 
or  two.  '  I  'm  unusually  tired,  Hearne,'  he  says,  *  what  would 
you  advise?  '  I  told  him  to  try  a  music  hall,  and  I  'm  damned 
if  the  fool  did  n't  go  straight  off  to  the  Oxford  for  three  solid 
hours  before  he  went  to  bed.  He  said  next  day  he  had  n't  been 
inside  a  place  of  amusement  for  ten  years,  and  had  quite  for- 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  75 

gotten  the  extraordinary  art  and  precision  required  in  sitting 
with  another  man's  knees  in  the  small  of  your  back,  a  feather 
tickling  your  nose,  and  a  hatpin  presented  at  either  ear." 

I  had  made  one  or  two  attempts  at  interruption,  like  a  feather 
beating  against  a  head  wind.  I  flung  myself  upon  him  and  laid 
him  gently  on  the  ground.  He  fended  me  off,  gurgling  helplessly 
in  his  throat. 

"Oh,  I'm  weak,"  he  gasped.  "Don't!  You'll  break  me, 
you  will." 

"  All  these  —  selections,"  I  said,  "  are  so  much  shuffling  from 
the  point.  You  've  got  to  pull  up.  Things  are  come  to  a  pretty 
fine  pass  when  the  lethargic  Sanday  rouses  himself  to  warn  you." 

"  Sartday's  love  for  me  makes  him  over-anxious,"  he  answered. 
"  But  what  do  you  suppose  it  is  that  makes  me  yearn  after  a 
treatise  on  old  red  sandstone  when  I  ought  to  be  in  the  Physics 
lab.,  or  keeps  me  rooted  in  the  lab.  when  I  ought  to  be  swinking 
at  something  else?  These  science  courses  are  all  wrong.  They 
leave  no  margin  for  original  work.  They  might  have  been  de- 
vised for  the  especial  murder  of  genius.  That 's  what  it  is, 
Joy.  It 's  genius  —  the  unpruned  roots  of  genius  annoying  the 
tidy,  academic  mind." 

"  Well,  the  sooner  you  get  to  work  with  a  pruning  knife,  the 
better  for  you,"  I  retorted,  and  left  him  to  his  rusk  and  a  mon- 
strous version  of  the  Mahabharata.  He  was  studying  it  for  the 
local  color,  with  the  intention  of  dumbfounding  Aldabeezar  HI. 

During  his  second  year  the  moods  of  depression  and  idleness 
became  more  frequent.  We  were  at  our  wit's  end  to  get  him  to 
work  at  all.  Then  Margaret  came,  and  for  a  few  weeks  we 
thought  that  she  was  succeeding  where  we  had  failed.  He  took 
her  about  London,  for,  like  him,  she  could  not  work  except  in 
long  sleepless  stretches,  with  days  and  weeks  of  idleness  between. 
He  was  eager  and  full  of  the  old  ambitions.  But  the  impulse 
died  out,  and  he  relapsed  into  a  moody  uncertainty. 

It  would  be  easy  to  present  Michael  as  a  tragic  figure,  wrestling 
with  the  crushing  problems  of  human  existence.  He  seemed  to 
have  in  him  an  instinctive  revolt  against  the  environment  in 
which  he  found  himself.  He  would  abuse  it  at  one  and  the  same 
time  as  a  fatuous  and  commonplace  routine,  and  as  a  chaos  of 


76  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

blood  and  misery,  too  cruel  and  unjust  to  be  endured.  From 
his  spasms  of  depressed  silence  he  emerged  into  a  >vindy  dis- 
satisfaction with  the  universe.  He  sprawled  in  the  armchair 
and  talked  with  a  mocking  humor  that  glanced  edgeways  at  him- 
self, or  he  pranced  about  the  room,  arguing,  Oliver  said,  like  a 
drunken  Rationalist. 

"  The  Christian  religion  is  the  biggest  and  most  successful  bluff 
in  human  history.  But  it  loses  its  potency.  Folk  are  beginning 
to  see  through  it  to  the  horrid,  bloody  tribal  rites  behind.  The 
sacrifice  of  one  for  many  —  a  heathen  scattering  of  human  blood. 
And,  yet,  if  you  take  away  the  Cross  from  Christianity,  what  is 
there  to  distinguish  it  from  —  say  —  the  teaching  of  Confucius? 
Except  a  sentimentality  that  makes  it  acceptable  to  the  timorous 
and  self-seeking.  Of  course,  I  know  it 's  usual  to  get  lyrical  about 
the  parables.  But  you  can  make  the  Gospels  justify  anything, 
from  child  labor  to  putting  sand  in  the  sugar." 

"  You  should  n't  judge  Christianity  by  bishops  and  amateur 
theologians,"  I  put  in. 

"  If  Christianity  is  n't  to  be  judged  by  Christians,"  he  shouted, 
"what  on  earth  is  it  to  be  judged  by?  A  faith  must  be  judged 
by  the  company  it  keeps.  There  is  no  faith,  apart  from  its 
expression  in  human  minds  and  human  modes  of  life.  And  you 
know  the  company  kept  by  this  Cross  business.  It  gets  hold  of 
the  savage  in  us.  It  calls  up  fears  and  superstitions  we  would  n't 
dare  drag  into  the  light  of  day.  Perhaps  religion  is  sacrifice, 
after  all  —  a  continuous  sacrifice  of  will  and  personality." 

Another  night,  he  sat  smoking  in  his  chair  until  the  small 
hours  of  the  morning.  Margaret  and  I  had  worked  late,  and 
we  were  gathering  up  our  books  and  papers  when  he  began  to 
talk. 

"  Devils  for  work,  you  two,"  he  said.  "  I  suppose  you  think 
I  ought  to  have  been  working  alongside  you !  Sometimes  I  think 
I  '11  throw  the  whole  thing  up  and  go.  It  gets  on  me  —  this 
town  —  and  other  things.  Things  look  secure  to  you.  They  do 
to  me.  I  look  round  and  I  see  a  continuous  procession  of  solid, 
satisfied  citizens  going  up  to  town  to  buy  cheap  and  sell  dear, 
coming  back  to  sleep  with  solid  wives  in  solid  beds.  Sometimes 
I  want  to  shout  and  chatter  at  them.  Wasn't  there  some  one 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  77 

who  ran  through  the  streets  of  Lichfield  crying  — *  Woe,  woe, 
to  this  bloody  town?  '  I  'd  like  to  take  and  shove  their  noses  in 
it,  show  'em  that  they  're  standing  in  blood,  drinking  it,  giving  it 
to  their  children  —  blood  pouring  from  a  million  exhausted 
bodies." 

The  stem  of  his  pipe  snapped  suddenly  in  his  hand.  He 
looked  absently  at  the  pieces. 

"The  beastliness  and  the  injustice  of  it  crush  me,"  he  said. 
"  Why  is  it  they  are  n't  crushed  and  shamed?  " 

"  They  don't  see  it,"  I  said  vaguely. 

He  jabbed  at  the  table  with  the  broken  pipe. 

"  People  have  interests  in  life,"  he  said.  "  They  trade  and 
groce  and  cheat  and  play  golf.  They  march  through  life  towards 
a  fixed  star.  There  is  disorder  and  suffering  —  a  universal  lazar- 
house.  What  purpose  does  it  all  serve?  Suppose  it  does  n't 
serve  any  purpose,  or  serves  a  bad  one?  I  've  tried  to  fill  my 
mind  with  other  things,  but  they  all  fail  me.  I  keep  falling 
through  the  bottom  of  my  self-deceptions.  I  've  run  round  blow- 
ing out  little  social  bladders  —  thinking  what  could  be  done, 
what  sort  of  tricks  one  could  play  to  dodge  the  universe  and 
bluff  it  into  producing  a  decent  life  for  men.  But  all  this  social 
stuff  —  is  n't  it,  after  all,  as  if  one  were  fussing  round  about  the 
drainage  when  the  whole  house  is  threatened  with  destruction? 
What 's  the  use  of  it  all  if  the  world  does  n't  mean  anything  any- 
way, or  if  it 's  fixed  towards  evil  and  injustice?  One  works  and 
works  and  thinks  and  plans  and  at  the  end  of  it  all  there  we 
are  still,  perhaps  a  little  better  clothed,  a  little  better  fed,  a  little 
healthier,  but  still  clinging  like  insects  to  the  face  of  the  earth, 
menaced  by  catastrophes  over  which  we  have  no  control." 

I  clutched  at  my  wits  and  tried  to  divert  the  torrent. 

"  There  's  plenty  of  meaning  in  life,"  I  said,  "  if  you  'd  give  up 
trying  to  measure  yourself  by  the  planetary  system.  There's 
art—" 

"Art  can't  be  the  meaning  of  things,  you  color-drunk  fat- 
head. If  it  were,  every  one  would  have  at  least  some  sense  of  it. 
I  have  none.  And  I  can't  rid  myself  of  the  notion  of  an  artist 
as  the  subtlest  of  liars,  forcing  a  false  simplification  on  to  the 
complexity  of  life,  crying  *  order '  where  there  is  n't  order.  Don't 


78  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

you,  honestly,  think  that  art  is  only  another  of  the  self-deceptions? 
It  is  brave  and  beautiful,  but  only  bluff  after  all.  No  one  but 
an  artist  would  be  crazed  enough  to  suggest  that  empires  rise 
and  perish  and  the  generations  travail  for  the  sake  of  producing 
a  canvas  or  marble  idol.  Did  Greece  exist  to  produce  Phidias?  " 

"  You  could  argue  that  it  did,"  I  interrupted. 

"  You  'd  argue  anything,"  he  shouted.  "  But  if  you  argued 
that,  you  'd  be  talking,  let  me  tell  you,  like  a  fool  or  an  artist.  I 
never  could  make  up  my  mind  whether  priests  or  painters  were 
the  more  colossal  egoists." 

His  eyes  fell  on  the  broken  pipe. 

"  Well,  I  'm  damned !  "  he  said.  "  You  've  trodden  on  my 
pipe,  one  of  you.  You  —  you  murderers  .  .  ." 

In  my  thoughts  I  seem  to  miss  the  source  of  Mick's  unrest. 
Queerly  it  eludes  me.  As  a  child  he  suffered  acutely  from  the 
hardships  that  I  endured  in  silence  and  Oliver  did  not  even  see. 
There  seemed  a  deep-drawn,  hidden  discord  between  some  part 
of  his  consciousness  and  life.  I  do  not  know,  indeed,  whether 
life  was  the  antagonist,  or  life  malformed  and  twisted  and  made 
hideous  by  greed  and  apathy. 

It  would  be  easy,  I  say,  to  present  him  as  a  tragic  rebel  against 
the  God  of  this  world.  Easy  and  intriguing  and  —  untrue. 
There  was  nothing  tragic  about  him.  There  was  something 
twisted  and  something  devilishly  clear-sighted  that  kept  him  from 
drugging  his  brain  with  the  deceptions  and  excuses  that  most 
of  us  offer  ourselves  for  the  sorry  spectacle  of  dead  and  maimed 
along  the  wayside  of  progress.  And  between  the  two,  he  had 
moments  when  he  came  near  a  headlong  renunciation  of  every 
plan  and  ambition  that  seemed  to  hold  him  in  a  decent  and  self- 
seeking  world. 

He  had  a  passion  for  order  and  he  found  himself  in  a  world 
where  disorder  is  the  rule  of  the  road.  He  loved  beauty  with  a 
sharp  and  subtle  love,  and  he  could  only  snatch  it  hardily  from 
the  ugly  rush  of  a  man-made  struggle  for  existence. 

Certainly  he  was  not  tragic,  unless  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
a  tragic  sprite,  bitter  and  joyous,  mocking  and  cheerful,  by  turns 
or  all  at  once,  full  of  mental  whimsies  and  freakish  as  Puck. 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  79 

No.     Freakish  is  wrong.     He  was  not  really  freakish.    There  was 
too  deep  a  purpose  in  him  for  that. 

There  were  weeks  when  he  overflowed  with  an  exuberant  happi- 
ness that  swept  us  in  and  out  of  adventure.  He  got  himself  in- 
vited to  a  house  in  Dulwich,  and  there  posed  as  a  distinguished 
scientist.  He  came  home  at  night  and  described  how  he  had 
enthralled  a  drawing-room-full  of  people  with  the  incredible 
wonders  of  science.  I  have  no  doubt  of  their  incredibility  in 
Mick's  mouth. 

In  the  course  of  a  speech  at  the  Debating  Society  he  invented 
a  Czech^  philosopher,  whom  he  called  Sinciwincs  and  endowed 
with  views  of  astounding  audacity  on  marriage  and  the  nature  of 
the  Trinity.  A  doctor  of  theology  sputtered  and  foamed  at  the 
mouth  in  refutation  of  what  he  said  was  barbarous  and  degraded 
Gnosticism,  and  the  librarian  was  besieged  next  day  for  possible 
translations  of  the  engaging  heretic. 

Mick's  garrulity  overflowed  into  parks  and  meeting-places  of 
the  damned.  His  enormous  stick  and  queer  cracked  laugh  be- 
came familiar  as  its  bed  to  the  bowler-hatted  humanity  that 
gathered  in  Brockwell  Park  on  Sunday  afternoons  and  listened 
while  he  bemused  it  with  the  most  preposterous  of  social  sciences. 

He  wasted  so  much  time  and  had  to  make  up  for  it  by  such 
devastating  onslaughts  upon  arrears  of  work  that  we  did  not  see 
how  even  his  amazing  vitality  could  stand  the  strain. 

We  were  afraid  to  worry  him  about  it  lest  he  should  get  out  of 
hand  altogether,  refuse  to  take  a  degree,  disappear.  There  was 
about  Mick  none  of  that  parsimonious  decency  that  keeps  most 
of  us  well  on  this  side  of  our  follies.  We  play  the  fool  with 
the  sure  inward  knowledge  that  we  are  bitted  citizens  and  family 
men  with  regular  habits  and  bellies  to  be  filled.  But  one  could 
not  be  sure  of  Mick. 

He  began  to  make  mysterious  excursions  to  the  west  end  of 
London.  Three  or  four  times  a  week  he  left  King's  at  dinner- 
time and  came  home  near  midnight.  I  sat  up  for  him  one  night 
when  he  was  later  than  usual.  He  came  in  about  two,  and 
dropped  rather  wearily  into  a  chair.  I  waited  for  him  to  speak 
but  he  said  nothing. 


80  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

"  It 's  no  business  of  mine,"  I  began  carefully,  "  but  I  guess 
you  've  forgotten  that  your  Final  comes  off  in  two  months. 
You  're  wasting  a  hell  of  a  lot  of  time,  you  know." 

He  laughed  at  me. 

"  I  know  what  I  'm  doing,"  he  said.  *'  I  can  take  the  Finals 
on  my  head.  Don't  you  worry  yourself." 

I  pushed  my  books  into  a  corner  of  the  shelf  and  prepared  to 
leave  him  in  his  conceit. 

"  Don't  go,  Joy,"  he  said  abruptly.  "  Sit  down,  and  I  '11  tell 
you  where  I  've  been.  She  lives  in  South  Kensington,  and  I 
spoke  to  her  at  the  Queen's  Hall.  She  's  all  right.  I  've  met  her 
family  and  all  that." 

I  stared  at  him. 

**  You  always  were  a  fool,"  I  said,  "  but  I  did  n't  think  you 
were  fool  enough  to  ruin  your  chances  of  a  First  for  the  sake  of 
holding  hands  with  a  girl  you  picked  up  at  a  concert." 

"  Shows  how  little  you  know  me,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "  To 
tell  you  the  truth,  I  'm  nfot  keen  on  letting  it  run  on  much  longer, 
but  one  must  —  keep  this  off."  He  waved  his  hand  at  the  hid- 
den street. 

After  that  night  I  noticed  that  his  visits  to  South  Kensington 
were  always  followed  by  a  mood  of  weary  excitement  when  he 
would  walk  about  the  room,  debating  with  the  universe. 

"  I  Ve  thought,"  he  said  once,  "  that  science  might  be  the  mean- 
ing of  the  world.  It  might  be  worth  living  just  for  the  sake  of 
knowledge  and  mastery.  But  back  I  come  again  —  knowledge  for 
what?  For  comfort?  If  I  knew  all  there  were  to  know  of  na- 
ture's secret  I  'd  still  be  unsatisfied." 

It  wanted  a  month  to  his  Finals  when  he  asked  Margaret  to 
go  with  him  to  South  Kensington. 

"  You  can  come  too,  Joy,"  he  said.  "  I  'd  like  them  to  see  that 
I  have  a  presentable  relative." 

The  girl  lived,  we  found,  in  one  of  those  faded  yellow  squares 
that  cling  round  the  skirts  of  fashionable  London.  A  half-fed 
and  startled-tooking  maid  opened  the  door  to  us.  Mick  walked 
unannounced  into  a  room  on  the  right  of  the  hall.  We  hesitated 
in  the  doorway.  A  woman,  lounging  in  a  cane  chair,  jumped  up 
with  premeditated  vivacity. 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  81 

"  Oh,  Mickie,"  she  said,  "  and  you  've  brought  your  friends. 
How  sweet  of  you!  Olive  is  upstairs.  She  won't  be  long." 

Mick  waved  a  hand  at  us.  "  Margaret.  My  brother.  Mrs. 
Champion." 

Mrs.  Champion  smiled  archly,  with  one  eyebrow  lifted  over 
Mick's  unceremonious  methods. 

"  How  good  of  you,"  she  said.     "  How  too  good  of  you." 

She  seemed  to  grope  in  her  mind  for  words  to  express  our 
transcendent  goodness.  The  door  opened,  and  a  girl  came  into 
the  room.  She  stood  a  moment  poised  against  the  black  curtain 
in  the  doorway,  and  looked  at  us  with  a  half-sullen  defiance  strug- 
gling faith  her  smile.  Her  first  words  were  ungracious. 

"  So  you  've  brought  them,"  she  said  to  Mick,  with  a  sidelong 
glance  at  me.  "  I  did  n't  think  you  would." 

"  We  are  glad  to  come,"  Margaret  said  unexpectedly.  "Mick 
has  often  spoken  of  you." 

She  took  a  step  towards  the  girl,  whose  face  brightened. 

"  And  I  'm  so  glad  you  're  here,"  she  answered.  "  I  wanted 
to  see  you." 

I  found  myself  sitting  beside  Mrs.  Champion  in  a  horrible  lanky 
chair.  In  the  pauses  of  fending  off  her  conversational  rushes,  I 
gave  a  furtive  attention  to  her  daughter. 

Olive  Champion  had  a  curious  exotic  beauty  of  ivory  skin  and 
full  red  mouth.  I  thought  there  might  be  Jewish  blood  in  her. 
Then  I  thought  that  she  was  really  a  Beardsley  woman,  but  plump 
and  youthful,  with  a  quick  feline  vitality.  She  watched  Mick 
with  a  defiant  possessive  air,  as  if  she  knew  how  little  and  yet 
how  fiercely  she  held  him.  I  did  not  like  her  and  I  was  sorry  for 
her. 

We  had  tea  on  a  series  of  sma41  tables  that  pulled  out  from 
under  each  other,  and  stood  perilously  round  on  creaking  spindle 
legs.  It  struck  me  quite  suddenly  that  Margaret  was  a  surprise 
to  them.  They  had  not  expected  her  to  be  —  well,  Margaret  — 
very  graceful  and  slender  in  her  long  gray  coat.  Mrs.  Champion 
affected  a  constrained  and  unnatiw-al  ease  of  manner  -and  talked 
brightly  on  innumerable  subjects.  She  poked  little  informative 
remarks  at  us.  The  father  was  in  the  city:  I  suppose  he  played 
3  part  in  one  of  the  many  shady  byways  of  modern  finance.  He? 


82  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

must  have  done  it  quite  well,  for  the  house  was  full  of  thick  low 
couches,  horrible  satin  cushions  and  gold-threaded  curtains. 
Black  bowls  stood  about  the  room,  with  scarlet  poppies  floating  on 
the  water.  The  tea-cups  were  scarlet,  with  black  saucers  and 
black  plates,  and  small  red-handled  implements  like  ineffectual 
palette  knives.  Olive  wore  a  red  frock,  very  narrow  in  the  body 
and  full  below  the  hips,  and  her  mother  had  wriggled  into  a 
black  gown  that  thinned  off  over  shoulders  and  back.  She  had  a 
white,  solid  back. 

I  could  not  place  them.  Neither  mother  nor  daughter  appeared 
to  have  any  work  or  interest  in  life.  They  obviously  spent  a 
good  deal  of  care  on  their  bodies,  and  Mrs.  Champion  had  dabbled 
in  Women's  Suffrage  and  Cubism  and  Christian  Science  without, 
however,  ruffling  her  mental  placidity  in  the  slightest. 

"There's  something  in  healing  by  faith,  isn't  there?"  she 
appealed  to  me. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  said  helpfully,  "  there  must  be." 

"  That 's  what  I  feel,"  she  said.  "  Soul  calling  to  soul,  you 
know,  with  healing  in  their  wings."  I  saw  that  Mick  was  restrain- 
ing himself  and  I  drew  her  gently  from  the  subject. 

Olive  said  little.  She  seemed  to  be  constantly  on  the  verge  of 
snubbing  her  mother  quite  conclusively.  She  sat  with  compressed 
lips  and  half-closed  eyes.  Margaret  made  some  tentative  remark 
about  "The  New  Machiavelli."  Wells  was  our  conversational 
standby. 

Olive  looked  up. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  did  you  like  that?  I  thought  it  rather  silly. 
The  idea  is  all  right,  I  suppose,  but  it 's  mixed  up  with  such  a  lot 
of  rubbish.  That  about  love  being  spoilt  by  secrecy.  It 's  non- 
sense, isn't  it?  And  all  the  political  stuff  bored  me.  It's  out 
of  date,  too,  is  n't  it?  " 

"  Olive 's  a  bit  of  an  anarchist,"  Mick  interrupted.  "  She  thinks 
Wells  is  a  fussy  old  bird." 

Mrs.  Champion  burst  upon  the  conversation  with  a  bewildering 
excursion  into  politics.  As  I  listened  I  found  myself  uncon- 
sciously trying  to  understand  the  household.  I  had  never  met 
people  like  the  Champions  before,  and  their  aimless  attitude  puz- 
zled me.  They  did  not  seem  to  touch  reality  at  any  point.  They 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  83 

squatted  among  their  dreadful  cushions  like  mislaid  wives  of  some 
uxorious  monarch.  They  had  not,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  the  remot- 
est notion  of  any  life  outside  a  routine  of  shops,  cafes,  and 
theaters. 

Of  course,  they  were  not  the  oddities  they  seemed  to  me  at  that 
time.  I  came  later  upon  similar  households  everywhere  in  Lon- 
don, curious  by-products  of  the  social  chaos.  They  lived  on 
money  made  by  anti-social  charlatanry,  and  copied  their  manner 
of  life  from  households  where  charlatanry  had  been  raised  to  the 
dignity  of  high  finance.  Nothing  had  any  grip  upon  them.  Half 
a  century  ago  they  would  have  carefully  observed  all  the  forms 
of  religion  and  social  convention,  and  arranged  their  lives  by  a 
well-regulated  tradition.  But  formal  religion  has  exhausted  itself, 
the  old  class  landmarks  have  disappeared,  and  the  Champions  and 
their  kind,  abandoned  to  their  own  sense  of  fitness,  have  disinte- 
grated into  a  mob  of  half-educated,  acquisitive  women,  spending 
their  abundant  leisure  on  little  futile  dashes  at  new  sensations. 

With  the  rigidity  of  convention  these  people  seemed  to  have 
dropped  some  of  the  underlying  decencies.  There  was,  one  gath- 
ered, a  tacit  understanding  between  mother  and  daughter  that  cer- 
tain "  boys  "  belonged  to  the  mother  and  certain  "  men  "  to  Olive, 
and  a  furtive  conspiracy  against  the  obstrusiveness  of  Mr.  Cham- 
pion. 

He  was  not  conventionally  obstrusive.  Her  parents  went  to 
bed  and  left  Olive  sitting  on  Mick's  knee  with  an  unctuous  trust- 
fulness that  made  him  feel  like  a  hardened  seducer. 

They  felt,  I  believe,  that  she  must  be  allowed  a  free  hand  in 
her  adventures  after  marriage.  She  was  no  fool,  and  could  be 
trusted  not  to  cheapen  the  market. 

Mrs.  Champion  disappeared  after  tea,  and  Mick  plunged  into 
conversation.  I  imagined  that  he  was  diverting  energy  from 
some  hidden  source  of  passion  to  create  the  artificial  passion  of 
his  words. 

Olive  listened  to  him  with  a  half-scornful  admiration.  Now 
and  then  she  would  dispute  his  doctrines,  more,  I  thought,  for 
the  sake  of  differing  from  him,  than  because  she  was  really 
moved  or  interested. 

"Every  one  knows,"  he  cried,  "why  there  is  all  this  rushing 


84  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

round  and  hushing  up  of  sex,  this  nodding  and  winking  and 
whispering  over  the  heads  of  children.  It's  from  fear:  people 
keep  the  young  shut  up  as  long  as  they  can,  and  then  they  push 
them  out  into  the  world  and  say,  '  Thank  goodness,  they  're  off 
our  hands,  and  if  they  come  a  cropper  through  ignorance  or  curi- 
osity, it 's  none  of  our  business.'  They  're  jealous  too:  they  hate 
to  think  of  their  sons  and  daughters  knowing  as  much  about  life 
as  they  themselves  do,  and  so  they  try  to  keep  them  innocent, 
and  teach  them  that  love  is  all  a  matter  of  holding  hands  among 
the  daisies." 

Olive  glanced  at  him  with  a  curious,  sleepy  pleasure.  Her 
cheeks  were  flushed,  and  she  sat  with  her  hands  open,  palms  up- 
ward in  her  lap. 

"  The  old  ethics  don't  grip  people  now,"  Mick  added,  "  and 
that  doubles  the  confusion.  There  's  only  the  jar  and  pull  of  fear 
and  jealousy.  The  old  are  jealous  of  the  young,  and  afraid  of 
what  they  '11  do.  They  can't  help  themselves :  it 's  an  instinct, 
just  as  old  animals  are  jealous  of  their  young.  One  sex  is 
jealous  of  the  other's  power.  Class  is  jealous  and  fearful  of 
class,  nation  of  nation  .  .  ." 

We  escaped  from  Mick's  insatiable  lust  for  moral  scalps,  and 
found  ourselves  talking  of  artists  and  cafes.  Olive  displayed  an 
unexpected  animation. 

*'  I  know  a  painting  man,"  she  said.  "  He  is  a  wonderful  crea- 
ture. I  went  with  him  once  to  a  night  club  where  there  was 
dancing  and  singing."  She  turned  to  Mick.  "  There  's  the  free 
life  for  you.  No  stupid  conventions  about  that.  In  art  there  are 
no  conventions,"  she  echoed  vaguely. 

"  Conventions!  Art!  Night  Clubs!  "  Mick  spluttered.  "  What 
the  devil  do  you  think  all  those  posturers  have  to  do  with  art? 
Getting  excited  in  cafes,  seducing  models,  working  themselves 
up  into  a  state  of  silly,  dirty-minded  passion  in  which  they  con- 
ceive their  rotten  pictures!  Most  art  is  nothing  but  premeditated 
lechery." 

There  were  tears  in  Olive's  eyes. 

"  You  need  n't  make  fun  of  me  like  that,"  she  said. 

Mick  seated  himself  on  the  arm  of  her  chair. 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  85 

"  Never  mind,  sweetheart,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  mean  more  than 
half  I  say." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  hair.  She  shut  her  eyes  and  pressed 
her  body  against  his.  I  glanced  at  Margaret  in  time  to  see  the 
flickering  contempt  that  twisted  her  mouth. 

"  She  's  an  incurable  romantic,  my  little  Olive,"  Mick  said  ten- 
derly, "  and  she  '11  never  see  that  romance  is  only  the  refuge  of 
the  cowards  and  the  second-rate." 

"  Oh-oh,"  said  Olive.  "  What  about  Shakespeare  and  the 
Tempest?  " 

"  CouW  n't  be  a  more  disgustingly  realistic  play,"  Mick  told 
her.  "  Think  of  Miranda's  gloating  over  the  young  man,  and 
her  father's  plans  for  making  her  irresistible  and  keeping  her 
from  spoiling  her  chance  of  a  respectable  marriage  bed.  No 
romance  about  that,  my  girl." 

When  we  took  our  leave,  Mick  and  Olive  lingered  behind. 
Margaret  and  I  hesitated  in  the  passage,  wondering  what  had 
become  of  Mrs.  Champion.  We  heard  Mick  say  unsteadily,  "  Kiss 
me,  Olive." 

A  moment  later  they  came  out  together,  the  girl  clinging  to 
his  arm.  She  made  no  attempt  to  hide  the  urgency  of  her  desire: 
her  eyes  shone  with  an  exultant  ecstasy,  and  her  hand  moved 
caressingly  down  the  lines  of  his  body. 

We  did  not  talk  much  on  the  way  home.  Not  until  we  were 
half  way  up  Herne  Hill  did  Mick  say,  "  Well,  what  do  you  think 
of  Olive?  " 

*'  She  's  amazingly  pretty,"  I  answered. 

"  I  '11  admit  that  she  attracts  me  very  strongly,"  he  said.  "  Of 
course,  her  family  are  awful.  The  mother  is  a  —  well,  I  believe, 
a  downright  bad  lot,  and  her  father  an  etiolated  little  Jew.  One 
would  n't  want  to  marry  into  a  family  like  that.  Olive  's  much 
finer  than  her  family." 

"  She  seems  to  have  read  quite  a  lot,"  Margaret  ventured. 

"  She  has,  and  she  likes  you  to  know  it,"  Olive's  lover  said. 
"  She  'd  like  to  pose  as  having  an  original  intellect.  She  did  n't 
say  much  to  you,  but  she  's  always  talking  to  me  of  the  books  she 
has  read  and  the  extraordinary  people  she  has  met.  It  doesn't 


86  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

take  me  in.     I  know  perfectly  well  she 's  got  the  brains  of  a  well- 
read  parrot." 

I  don't  know  how  the  girl  came  to  have  the  hold  on  Mick  that 
she  undoubtedly  had.  I  suppose  her  tremendous  physical  vital- 
ity offered  an  easy  refuge  from  the  unrest  that  grew  in  him  as  his 
work  at  King's  drew  near  completion.  She  was  wonderfully  beau- 
tiful. I  believe  that  his  dislike  of  her  was  at  least  as  great  as 
his  love.  Her  unrestrained  passion  drew  him  fiercely  and  re- 
pelled him  as  fiercely.  There  were  times  when  he  seemed  curi- 
ously afraid  of  her  and  her  need  to  absorb  him.  "  She  wants 
keeping  in  her  place,"  he  said,  "  and  I  'm  the  man  to  do  it."  But 
he  had  doubts  of  his  own  strength  of  purpose  and  he  did  not  relish 
the  prospect  of  a  lifetime  spent  in  keeping  her  off. 

Once,  when  he  and  I  were  working  alone,  he  said,  "  Margaret 
did  n't  like  Olive,  did  she?  " 

"  She 's  hardly  Margaret's  sort,"  I  answered  cautiously. 

"  No."  He  considered  a  minute.  "  Margaret  can  live  with 
you  without  always  trying  to  get  at  you.  That  girl  would  suck  me 
dry  —  mind  and  soul  —  dry  as  an  old  glove  if  I  gave  her  half  a 
chance.  I  'd  never  be  able  to  do  anything.  I  sha'n't  give  her  the 
chance.  I  don't  intend  to  marry  her.  She  'd  make  a  rotten 
mother,  would  n't  she?  That  means  quite  a  lot  to  me,  you  know." 

After  a  while  he  added  abruptly,  "  I  suppose  you  all  think  she 's 
my  mistress.  Well,  you  're  quite  wrong.  I  'm  not  going  to  give 
her  any  such  hold  upon  me.  There 's  not  the  least  likelihood  of 
my  making  that  particular  fool  of  myself." 

A  week  later  he  went  to  South  Kensington  after  promising  to 
come  home  early.  He  did  not  come.  Margaret  and  I  sat  up 
for  him  until  midnight,  and  then  Margaret  went  to  bed.  He 
came  about  three,  and  stood  in  the  doorway,  regarding  me  with 
a  triumphant  defiance.  I  did  not  need  to  be  told  that  he  had 
made  that  particular  fool  of  himself  after  all. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

BRIXTON  is  the  queerest  suburb  of  London.  In  some  sense  it 
stands  for  all  the  rotten  shams  of  the  society  that  has  sprung 
from  the  wreckage  of  the  feudal  system.  It  stands  for  cheap, 
showy  rubbish  as  against  honorable  craftsmanship,  for  senseless 
waste,  and  for  pinching  squalor  overlaid  by  a  horrible,  electric- 
lit  superfluity  of  imitation  silk  blouses,  brown  paper  patent  shoes, 
gilt  watehfes  and  dyed  cat-skin.  You  may  stand  with  bulging  eyes 
and  reeling  brain  before  the  blue  glare  of  a  plate-glass  wilderness, 
and  then  walk  away  round  the  corner  into  a  narrow  street  a-swarm 
with  human  maggots  and  fostid  with  the  smells  of  rotten  fruit  and 
snippets  of  bad  meat. 

Walk  further  towards  the  river  through  the  exhausted,  color- 
less streets  of  Kennington,  the  sleeping-places  of  human  beings 
whose  days  are  a  frenzied  scrambling  on  the  insane  slippery  pyra- 
mid of  a  Beer  and  Buns  civilization. 

Walk  the  other  way  into  the  meretricious  neatness  of  Herne  Hill 
where  the  small  fry  of  the  professional  classes  perch  dangerously 
over  the  abyss,  clinging  to  their  salaried  respectability,  their  brick 
and  stucco,  and  the  cuffed  and  collared  decency  of  their  wasted, 
useless  lives. 

In  these  catacombs  of  murdered  humanity  the  industrial  sys- 
tem spreads  itself  out  for  you,  a  monstrous  futile  circle  of  greed, 
over-production  and  poverty,  achieving  for  the  race  nothing,  but 
everything  for  the  stuffing  and  adorning  of  a  few  men  and  women 
without  pride  of  ancestry  or  thought  for  posterity.  An  organized 
futility,  defended  by  jack-priests,  politicians,  and  a  spreading, 
scabrous  belief  that  black  coats,  gramophones  and  brick  villas  de- 
scend with  the  other  middle-class  decencies  straight  from  God 
through  the  capitalist. 

We  walked  into  Brixton  one  night  a  week  for  several  weeks 
to  the  flat  shared  by  Mick's  school  teachers.  They  were  a  T.P.'s 
Circle.  If  you  do  not  know  what  that  is  you  are  ignorant  indeed, 
and  unfitted  to  converse  on  the  uplifting  of  the  masses.  We  went 

87 


88  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

because  Mick  said  it  was  our  duty  to  go,  and  moreover,  the  two 
girls  had  done  him  kindnesses. 

Every  Friday  evening  a  round  dozen  members,  mostly  very 
young,  met  at  the  flat  for  social  and  intellectual  high- jinks.  There 
were  agile,  high-collared  young  men  subject  to  sudden  attacks  of 
humor,  and  two  or  three  young  women,  very  bright  and  vivacious 
in  white  blouses  and  assorted  skirts.  Camp  coffee  and  flat  lemon- 
ade excited  the  company  to  unrestrained  outbursts  of  wit  and 
gaiety.  The  young  women  laughed,  wiped  their  eyes,  said  their 
hair  was  coming  down,  and  Mr.  Cole  was  too  funny  or  too  aw- 
fully clever  for  words.  Sometimes  papers  were  read  on  the  phil- 
osophy of  Bernard  Shaw,  or  the  Georgian  poets,  or  anything  else 
on  the  intellectual  plane  of  the  circle,  and  earnest  discussions 
followed,  lasting  until  one  of  the  young  men  broke  away  and  had 
a  particularly  virulent  attack. 

The  really  amazing  thing  about  these  papers  was  their  intelli- 
gence. Their  writers  were  not  to  be  hustled  into  admiration :  they 
were  quite  unexcited  about  Mr.  Shaw  and  very  tolerant  towards 
vers  libre. 

"  Idees,"  said  Mr.  Cole,  "  idees  are  all  very  well.  This  Shaw 
now,  what  you  might  call  pro-lif-ic  in  his  head.  Pro-lif-ic.  If 
you  girls  don't  know  what  that  means,  I  'm  not  going  to  tell  you: 
go  and  look  it  up  if  you  think  it's  a  naughty  word."  He  sur- 
veyed the  hopeful  smiles  of  the  company.  "  What  I  say  is  give 
us  something  a  man  can  get  something  out  of.  More  meaty. 
None  of  your  pre-digested  breakfast  idees.  Or  else  something  a 
man  can  look  at.  Legs  and  dresses  —  not  too  much  of  the  dress. 
These  idees  now.  What  I  mean  is  —  they  give  you  an  idee,  like 
giving  a  dog  bones.  You  worry  at  them:  nothing  to  get  off  them 
though.  They  're  just  idees  —  bones.  Some  folk  like  chewing 
bones,  maybe."  He  stopped,  tried  to  get  back  to  his  argument, 
and  tangled  himself  up  in  a  hopeless  attempt  to  express  his  sense 
of  the  futility  of  the  intellectual  drama. 

Michael  came  to  the  rescue,  and  Mr.  Cole  collapsed  into  his 
chair,  rather  hurt  and  worried.  Afterwards  I  saw  him  talking 
earnestly  to  Margaret,  who  listened  with  an  appearance  of  sym- 
pathetic interest  that  soothed  him. 

I  should  not  forget  Charlotte.     Charlotte  was  the  middle-aged 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  89 

daughter  of  a  music  hall  artiste  whose  wife  and  family  avenged 
themselves  upon  him  by  a  searing  respectability.  She  had  trav- 
eled: she  looked  down  upon  the  gambollings  of  the  younger  mem- 
bers with  contemptuous  impatience  and  turned  to  us  for  spiritual 
refreshment.  I  am  afraid  that  she  did  not  get  it.  From  the 
heights  of  our  own  peacock-arrogance  we  laughed  at  her  eager  su- 
periority and  her  fierce  determination  to  be  all  mind.  She  wrote 
extraordinary  plays  which  mixed  up  the  Theban  and  Arthurian 
cycles  in  a  finely  impartial  spirit.  She  went  to  live  in  a  garret 
and  tried  to  persuade  Oliver  to  share  it.  We  were  lent  the  manu- 
script of  her  plays  and  could  not  decide  whether  to  tell  her  hon- 
estly hew  bad  and  impossible  they  were,  or  attempt  the  hopeless 
task  of  editing  them.  The  scene  of  one  was  laid  in  "  A  place  of 
light  and  silence,"  and  the  characters  were  all  embodied  aspects 
of  a  debauched  Theosophy.  We  were  consistently  kind  and 
respectful  to  her.  I  am  ashamed  to  remember  our  inhuman  kind* 
ness.  Poor,  pitiful,  lonely  Charlotte,  keeping  alight  her  absurd 
enthusiasms  with  a  courage  that  defied  middle-age,  neglect  and 
endless  disappointment.  I  do  not,  even  now,  see  what  place  there 
could  be  for  her  in  any  society,  since  the  only  society  that  would 
make  Charlotte  happy  would  be  one  that  liked  to  listen  in  a  semi- 
drunken  ecstasy  to  Charlotte's  plays.  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  she 
would  have  been  born  and  brought  up  more  successfully  in  a 
wiser  kind  of  State. 

For  a  short  time  a  young  German  was  a  member  of  the  Circle. 
I  do  not  know  how  he  got  into  it,  nor  what  he  must  have  thought 
of  it.  He  did  really  seem  to  be  in  a  perpetual  state  of  amaze- 
ment at  its  cheerful  fatuity.  We  were  a  peculiar  grief  to  him. 
He  seemed  to  think  that  a  University  education  must  ensure  a 
certain  level  of  intelligence  and  approached  us  with  the  joyous 
intention  of  being  heavily  and  mercilessly  intellectual.  When  he 
could  not  satisfy  his  horrid  lust  for  raw  brain  he  became  very 
angry.  He  told  us  how  much  bigger  and  better  everything  was  in 
Berlin.  Business  houses,  theaters,  streets,  parks  — "  much  big- 
ger," he  said,  "  oh,  much  bigger  and  besser  than  here." 

"Well,  what  about  the  docks?  "  Mick  asked. 

"  Docks  in  Germany,"  said  he,  "  are  much  bigger  and  besser 
than  any  docks  in  England." 


90  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

"And  our  municipal  parks?  " 

"  In  Berlin  the  parks  are  much  bigger  and  besser  than  Hyde 
Park  or  any  park." 

"And  our  municipal  asylum?  " 

"Oh,  in  Berlin,"  he  began,  "much  bigger,  oh  much  big- 
ger " 

The  guffaws  of  the  agile  young  men  interrupted  him.  He 
stopped,  saw  his  blunder  and  jumped  from  his  chair.  The  blood 
rushed  into  his  face  and  neck  and  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  We  show  you,"  he  stammered,  "  one  day  we  show  you." 

He  was  angry,  but  he  was  also  genuinely  hurt  that  a  trap  should 
have  been  laid  for  him. 

Oliver  laid  a  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  You  must  n't  mind  Mick,"  he  said,  "  the  poor  fellow  can't 
help  it." 

The  young  German  shook  him  off. 

**  I  don'  care,"  he  said  with  a  fierce  dignity.  "  In  Berlin  we 
show  more  courteous  than  this."  He  took  his  hat  and  went, 
the  honors  of  the  field  with  him. 

As  soon  as  we  were  out  of  the  house  we  fell  upon  Mick  and 
abused  him  heartily. 

"  Playing  off  a  thing  like  that  on  a  stranger,"  Oliver  said. 
"A  schoolboy  would  be  ashamed  of  it.  Did  you  think  you 
were  proving  your  English  superiority  over  the  simple  Ger- 
man? " 

"  It  was  pretty  feeble,"  Mick  admitted,  "  but  he  was  insuffer- 
able, and  he  ought  to  have  seen  through  it:  any  one  else  would 
have.  Besides,"  he  added  sharply,  "  you  're  a  nice  crowd  to  talk 
of  superiority.  Don't  you  sit  with  your  tongues  in  your  cheeks 
every  time  we  go  there?  I  suppose  you  think  they  won't  see 
you  're  making  fun  of  them." 

"  Well,  I  'm  not  going  there  any  more,"  I  said.  "  I  Ve  got  to 
work." 

We  did  go  once  more,  when  Oliver  read  them  a  long,  dull  paper 
on  J.  M.  Synge.  We  sat  in  the  silence  of  the  tomb.  Even  the 
lemonade  could  not  rouse  us,  and  the  meeting  broke  up  in 
gloom  and  depression.  The  intellect  should  be  judged  by  its 
fruits:  we  labored  and  brought  forth  a  dull  dog! 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  91 

Perhaps  because  Mick's  accusation  pricked  me,  I  thought  about 
that  T.P.'s  Circle  long  after  we  had  left  it.  I  did  not  at  the  time 
think  so  much  of  the  queer  pathos  of  that  handful  of  clerks  and 
shop-assistants  reading  papers  to  each  other  in  a  shamefaced  sort 
of  way,  struggling  with  awkward,  unused  faculties  to  understand 
things,  to  get  to  know  things  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  ledgers 
and  tape-measures. 

"  Pootry,"  Mr.  Cole  said  wistfully  to  Margaret.  **  I  suppose 
you  know  a  lot  of  pootry  now?  I  mean  this  Keats.  Would  he  be 
as  good  a  pote  as  Browning,  f'r  instance?  " 

His  face  brightened  when  Margaret  said  she  thought  him  as 
good  6'r  better. 

"  Why,"  he  said,  "  I  can  understand  about  Keats.  I  could  n't 
seem  to  get  away  with  the  other  one.  Real  sad  he  died  like 
that,  wasn't  it?  Gave  me  quite  a  shock  when  I  read  about  it." 

We  had  not  laughed  at  them,  but  I  suppose  we  could  not  avoid 
a  half-conscious  contempt,  because,  forsooth,  they  had  n't  had 
our  chances. 

Of  course,  they  wanted  to  have  a  good  time.  But  it  seemed 
to  me  that  there  was  more  in  it  than  that,  and  more  than  the  crav- 
ing for  knowledge  and  beauty  so  soon  to  be  choked  out  of  them. 
All  but  Charlotte  were  very  young:  they  would  n't  have  been  there 
otherwise.  As  they  grew  old  or  were  married,  they  dropped 
slowly  out  of  the  Circle  and  were  lost  in  the  dull  complexities 
of  a  responsible  life.  And  you  must  remember  that  our  partic- 
ular Circle  was  only  one  of  thousands,  bearing  many  names  but 
groping  towards  the  same  thing. 

They  were  so  many  blind  feelers,  reaching  out  to  an  ideal  of 
social  consciousness  that  is  almost  as  far  from  realization  to-day  as 
it  was  when  the  first  savages  crept  together  for  warmth  and  safety. 
Along  the  road  begun  then  the  human  race  still  creeps,  fumbling 
towards  the  stars. 

Man  has  vast,  undeveloped  powers  of  inter-communion  for 
which  no  adequate  expression  has  been  devised,  for  which  no 
adequate  expression  can  be  devised  in  a  world  torn  by  fear  and 
jealousy  and  organized  for  the  satisfaction  of  greed. 

I  am  convinced  that  the  task  for  the  race  is  to  find  some  means 
whereby  all  these  powerful  feelings  for  social  unity  and  against 


92  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

egoism  and  wolfish  lusts  shall  be  turned  into  channels  of  human 
usefulness. 

The  mystic  yearns  to  merge  his  identity  in  a  union  with  the 
Absolute-and-all-that-sort-of-thing.  The  lover  turns  all  his  un- 
realized altruism  into  the  rushing  tide  of  his  sexual  desire.  The 
former  achieves  in  the  last  resort  an  annihilation  of  personality 
in  an  experience  beyond  sense-experience.  The  latter  achieves 
matrimony  and  children:  his  altruism  narrows  and  hardens  into  a 
family-egoism  hardly  to  be  distinguished  in  its  nature  from  the 
egoism  of  the  mere  bachelor. 

We  are  all  mystics  and  lovers  at  one  time  or  another;  we  have, 
in  more  or  less  conscious  degree,  the  instinct  towards  union  with 
the  beyond-self.  And  the  world  is  so  arranged  that  these  very 
instincts  that  should  have  gone  to  the  making  of  a  perfect  State, 
are  a  handicap  in  the  competitive  struggle  and  must  be  turned 
into  the  comparatively  harmless  channels  of  religious  or  family 
egoism. 

Mysticism:  the  consummation  of  human  egoism.  Family  love: 
egoism  which  sees  itself  reflected  in  a  series  of  mirrors,  wife, 
children,  household  goods. 

That  unborn  State,  the  fine,  spacious  State  for  which  men  lie 
dead  in  the  mud  of  Flanders,  is  perishing  in  the  womb  for  want 
of  these  thwarted  and  diverted  social  instincts. 

Suppose  there  were  tiny  holes  in  the  barriers  that  hold  these 
great  forces  in  check,  would  not  the  waters  trickle  out  into  just 
such  little  pools  of  T.P.'s  Circles,  and  Societies  to  Enforce  Peace, 
and  art  and  poetry  circles,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  futile  ways 
through  which  men  try  to  express  their  sub-conscious  longing  for 
a  social  unity  founded  on  brotherly  respect  and  understanding? 

We  stumbled  into  artistic  circles  with  the  same  uneasy  sense  of 
being  out  of  place  that  we  had  had  in  the  cheerful  flat  in  Brixton. 
I  do  not  remember  how  we  came  to  meet  young  Stavrillov.  I  do 
not,  indeed,  remember  anything  of  him  before  the  afternoon  that 
Margaret  and  I  had  tea  in  his  studio.  He  was  eager  to  show  his 
pictures.  They  were  rather  wonderful.  There  was  a  Magician's 
City,  with  white  domes  and  minarets  hung  in  the  clear,  deep  blue 
of  a  night  sky,  and  white  walls  that  showed  slowly  as  tall  cowled 
figures,  watching  with  hidden  eyes. 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  93 

"  I  paint,"  Stavrillov  said,  "  not  men  or  things,  but  states  of 
mind.  This  is  the  wizard  in  man,  buried  deep  in  his  conscious- 
ness, but  watching,  always  watching  to  seize  him  unawares  and 
cast  him  into  the  abyss." 

"Abyss?  "  Margaret  queried. 

*' Where  there  is  no  faith  and  no  God,  but  only  a  hopeless 
struggle  with  the  secret  of  the  universe." 

We  had  the  dimmest  idea  of  his  meaning,  but  we  admired 
his  work,  and  preferred  his  states  of  mind  to  those  of  the  Man 
Posting  a  Letter,  whose  features  we  had  seen  at  the  Exhibition, 
scattered  all  over  the  canvas  in  an  agony  of  disintegration.  Our 
open  admiration  pleased  him  and  he  took  us  into  various  studios. 
We  found  ourselves  invited  to  Chelsea  teas  and  small  private 
exhibitions.  Once  we  attended  a  lecture  on  scenic  art.  The  lec- 
turer had  made  models  of  his  stage  settings  and  as  we  sat  frown- 
ing over  their  black  and  purple  symbolism,  an  eager  old  lady 
tapped  Margaret  on  the  shoulder. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "but  I  can't  quite, 
catch  everything  he  says,  though  I  can  see  the  beautiful  models. 
I  suppose  that  is  the  bathroom  he  is  showing  now?  " 

It  was  a  Hamlet  setting,  I  think.  Or  it  might  have  been  Mac- 
beth. I  do  not  myself  think  that  Shakespeare  would  have  cared 
for  the  new  stage  settings.  Poor  wretch,  he  had  the  defects  of 
his  age. 

We  progressed  into  the  region  of  drawing-room  art  and  stood 
perilously  about  on  polished  floors  and  priceless  rugs,  fragile 
china  in  our  hands  and  fear  in  our  hearts,  listening  to  the  endless 
talk.  These  people  did  not  exactly  read  themselves  papers,  but 
their  mentality  differed  not  at  all  in  kind  and  very  little  in  de- 
gree from  mentality  of  our  T.P.'s  Circle.  There  was  the  same 
vague  circling  argument,  the  same  pawing  over  of  scraps  of  knowl- 
edge, but  it  was  all  mixed  up  with  vanities  and  jealousies  that  did 
not  appear  among  their  Brixton  kinsfolk.  And  there  was  —  un- 
mistakably —  the  same  fumbling  desire  for  completer  understand- 
ing. More  sharply,  because  through  more  finely  developed 
senses,  these  people  felt  the  need  of  a  synthesis  of  social  elements 
^that  now  are  discordant  and  jarring.  It  did  not,  of  course,  pre- 
vent their  quarreling  and  hating  each  other  quite  violently. 


94  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

We  met  Barlow  in  one  of  the  drawing-rooms.  He  was  a  dark, 
intense  young  man,  with  a  fluttering  scorn  of  the  rugs  and  the 
fragile  china.  He  said  they  reeked  of  the  Royal  Academy.  Later 
we  discovered  him  to  be  a  handy-man  of  the  arts.  He  painted 
pots  and  lampshades,  designed  jewelry,  dresses,  cushions  and  cur- 
tains, all  in  what  he  called  virile  colors.  He  had,  indeed,  an 
unappeasable  appetite  for  virility.  He  yearned  after  it:  when 
he  had  drawn  a  red-headed  woman  with  narrow,  pallid  face, 
red  slit  mouth,  and  dark  slit  eyes,  and  sheathed  her  in  red  and 
purple  and  gold,  he  became  enraptured  of  his  male  dignity  and 
drew  her  again  on  the  same  sheet  of  paper  without  the  sheath. 
He  had  a  collection  of  these  double  designs.  Mick  called  them  the 
Seventy  Skinny  Sins. 

Barlow's  wife,  a  plump,  brown-skinned  woman,  watched  over 
him  with  jealous  adoration.  She  made  frocks  after  his  Bakst-like 
designs  and  wore  them  with  a  scared  defiance.  I  believe  she  had 
a  secret  longing  for  gracious  lines,  but  she  sacrificed  it  with  her 
other  pale  ideas  on  the  altar  of  Barlow's  extraordinary  egotism. 
Once  in  our  hearing  she  roused  herself  to  a  shy  defense  of  the 
Roman  Church.  He  cut  her  short  in  the  harshest  manner,  and 
drew  her  fiercely  aside. 

"  I  hope  you  '11  never  talk  like  that  again,"  he  said.  "  It  up- 
sets my  balance,  and  it  is  most  important  that  I  should  not  be 
upset.  My  art  .  .  .  balance  .  .  .  my  art."  The  expostulatory 
voice  followed  me  through  the  crowded  room,  interrupted  by  the 
eager  murmuring  of  his  wife. 

Afterwards  she  made  fluttering  excuses. 

"  He  's  not  angry  when  he  talks  like  that,"  she  said,  "  it 's  his 
way.  He  's  so  high-strung.  I  feel  so  stupid  beside  him.  All  that 
I  am  he  has  made  me,  and  I  know  that  I  don't  fully  understand 
him.  His  spirit  is  too  great  for  him.  He  works  so  hard,  oh,  so 
splendidly  hard." 

He  did  work  hard.  He  swept  up  fragments  from  every  artistic 
table  and  shamelessly  fathered  the  ideas  of  other  men.  He  also 
wrote  verse  in  what  he  swore  to  be  the  manner  of  Verlaine  — 
sewer-stuff,  Mick  called  it.  In  some  strange  fashion,  he  regarded 
art  as  a  kind  of  home-made  aphrodisiac. 

As  the  Finals  drew  nearer  we  gave  up  our  outside  interests.     We 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  95 

had  not  seen  Stavrillov  for  weeks  when  he  descended  upon  us  at 
King's  and  dragged  us  to  the  private  exhibition  of  a  popular 
young  artist.  The  boards  were  as  polished  and  the  rugs  as  price- 
less as  ever.  The  long  narrow  room  was  crowded.  Margaret 
crossed  over  to  a  group  of  young  women  whose  necks  cannot  pos- 
sibly have  been  so  long  as  they  looked.  I  found  myself  with  some 
artists  who  were  abusing  the  pictures  violently  under  cover  of 
the  loud  talk.  When  I  met  Margaret  again,  she  was  listening  to 
Barlow's  wife.  I  caught  a  fragment  of  their  talk. 

"  My  dear,"  the  little  woman  said,  "  the  agony  of  his  face.  It 
was  terrible.  I  said  to  myself  —  never  again.  I  can't  bear  him 
to  go^through  such  suffering  for  me." 

I  got  Margaret  away. 

"Who's    been    murdered?"     I    said.     "Whose    were    the 
9  » 


agonies.' 


"  Barlow's,"  Margaret  answered.  "  She  wanted  me  to  recom- 
mend her  a  woman  doctor  because  of  the  anguish  in  Barlow's 
eyes  when  Mrs.  Barlow  calls  in  a  man  to  cure  her  ailments." 

I  laughed.     Margaret  regarded  me  dourly. 

"  She  said  she  could  n't  bear  to  see  Barlow  talking  to  another 
woman  and  that  he  suffered  dreadfully  if  she  spoke  to  another 
man.  They  're  unclean,"  she  finished,  with  her  mouth  twisted  in 
distaste,  "  positively  unclean." 

We  looked  round  for  the  others.  Oliver  was  sitting  on  the  edge 
of  a  table,  very  red  and  angry,  thrusting  some  artistic  dogma  at 
a  group  of  excited  men.  Barlow  was  one  of  them. 

"  You  will  tell  us  next,"  he  said,  waving  a  thin  hand  in  Oliver's 
face,  "  that  we  don't  know  what  we  're  saying.  We  —  artists  — 
know  nothing  of  art." 

"  No  more  you  do,"  my  brother  retorted.  "  Artists !  Are  you 
an  artist?  Daubing  pots  is  n't  art." 

I  was  about  to  interfere  when  Mick  appeared  suddenly.  He 
took  Oliver's  arm  and  pulled  him  off  the  table. 

"You  mustn't  mind  him*"  he  said  sweetly,  "he  was  dragged 
up  in  the  gutter.  Along  with  me,"  he  added  as  an  after-thought. 

He  led  Oliver  through  the  astonished  young  men,  and  we  took 
our  leave. 

We  never  saw  our  good  friend  Stavrillov  again,  nor  heard  of 


96  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

him  until  I  read  he  had  died  for  France.  Peace  be  with  you, 
Stavrillov  of  the  subtle  brush.  Sleep  untroubled,  restless  mind, 
and  hands  obedient  to  the  dreaming  eyes. 

We  forgot  Chelsea  but  we  were  not  allowed  to  forget  Brixton. 
It  jerked  up  again  in  exalted  company.  Anthony  had  persuaded 
us  to  go  with  him  to  the  Ethical  Church.  We  sat  through  a  lec- 
ture on  Hamlet  of  which  an  undergraduate  in  his  first  year  should 
have  been  ashamed,  and  blinked  unhappily  at  a  series  of  scantily- 
clad  youths  chasing  each  other  with  torches  round  a  large  flat 
disc.  A  scroll,  or  a  banner,  or  it  may  have  been  a  pulpit,  offered 
"  Praise  to  the  Human  Heart  by  which  we  live."  It  seemed  un- 
called-for. Christ  and  Buddha  looked  forlornly  round  their  alien 
temple  upon  furred  women  and  frock-coated  men.  There  was  a 
thick  fog  outside  when  we  left,  but  it  was  nothing  to  the  fog 
inside. 

We  climbed  to  the  top  of  a  'bus  that  was  trying  to  find  Victoria 
Station.  Mick  leaned  over  the  front. 

"  Driver,"  he  shouted,  "  drive  like  hell  to  Charing  Cross." 
The  'bus  started  with  a  jerk,  and  the  next  minute  ran  into  a 
lamp-post.  After  the  crash  of  broken  glass  and  the  shrieks  of 
women  passengers,  the  driver's  voice  could  be  heard,  laying  direct 
responsibility  for  the  accident  upon  Mick. 

We  went  two  or  three  times  to  the  highbrow  tabernacle,  but 
never  acquired  the  taste  for  potted  knowledge.  The  people  were 
much  heavier  in  the  hand  than  our  friends  in  Chelsea,  more  tol- 
erant and  less  witty,  broader-minded  and  less  generous,  and  infi- 
nitely farther  from  a  spiritual  renaissance.  By  the  same  token 
their  mental  state  was  nearer  that  of  their  Brixton  prototypes,  but 
immensely  more  sophisticated,  and  confused  by  notions  of  the  in- 
tellectual life  drawn  from  dull  books  and  duller  quarterlies. 

They  tried  to  wangle  a  communal  harmony  by  proclaiming  a 
common  search  for  Truth.  Truth,  that  has  been  sought  and 
missed  in  travail  of  mind  and  spirit,  does  not  come  at  the  beck  of 
easy  folk.  They  ought  to  have  known  —  they  had  the  blood- 
stained testimony  of  the  ages  —  that  order  is  not  conjured  out  of 
disorder,  nor  truth  out  of  error  by  singing  Swinburne  instead  of 
Wesley  and  absorbing  indigestible  slabs  of  cold,  dead  science  and 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  97 

literature.  Some  of  them,  no  doubt,  worked  very  hard,  as  your 
well-fed  intellectual  understands  hard  work,  and  produced  a 
number  of  little  truths  which  did  not  hang  together.  They  had 
no  power  to  make  them  hang  together.  They  did  not,  in  fact, 
achieve  a  synthesis,  but  only  an  attitude  .  .  . 

•  ••*•••••• 

A  wind  from  the  moors  clears  my  brain  of  these  phantoms. 
In  a  few  minutes  my  good  landlady  will  come  to  shut  the  window 
and  draw  the  curtains  Then  she  will  bring  in  the  lamp  and  light 
it  fussily.  It  is  one  of  her  little  ways  of  pretending  that  I  am 
not  blind.  I  should  not,  after  all,  like  to  think  that  I  was  sit- 
ting in  a  dark  room. 

She  will  set  the  table  for  tea  and  draw  it  up  to  the  fire,  and  tell 
me  that  the  hyacinths  are  coming  out  in  the  big  green  bowl.  I 
have  a  fairly  good  idea  of  this  room  of  mine,  though  I  have  not 
seen  it.  It  is  wider  and  more  gracious  than  the  little  red-walled 
room  at  Herne  Hill.  The  walls  are  gray,  and  the  carpet  is  white 
and  gray  and  black.  Low  book-shelves  run  round  two  sides  of 
the  room.  They  are  filled  with  my  own  books.  Stupid  to  have 
books  one  cannot  read?  Ah,  but  I  can  read  some  of  them.  I 
know  my  old  Morte  d'Arthur  so  well  that  I  can  trace  my  finger 
along  any  passage  and  read  it  to  myself.  And  there  are  others: 
my  school  copy  of  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  among  them. 

It  is  a  pleasant  room:  the  windows  look  across  the  valley  to 
the  moors.  But  do  you  suppose  I  think  of  moors  and  asphodel 
to-night?  Not  I. 

The  years  shrivel  and  are  blown  like  ashes  in  the  wind.  I  sit 
in  a  knobby  leather  chair,  listening  to  four  eager  voices.  What 
are  they  talking  about?  Perhaps  Wells.  Probably  "The  New 
Machiavelli."  We  were  always  discussing  "  The  New  Machia- 
velli."  For  a  long  time  we  had  no  copy  of  our  own,  and  then 
Margaret  brought  it  back  from  Antwerp  in  two  yellow  Tauchnitz 
volumes.  They  passed  from  hand  to  hand  in  King's,  pored  over 
and  annotated,  until  only  the  veriest  fragment  was  left  to  return 
to  their  owner.  Significantly  enough,  we  went  near  ignoring  the 
social  ideals  and  philosophy  to  quarrel  over  the  sex  problem. 
Margaret,  under  the  influence  of  a  clever  weekly,  said  that  Rem- 


98  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

ington  and  Isabel  were  weak  slaves,  and  could  have  kept  them- 
selves out  of  their  troubles  if  they  had  had  foresight  and  will 
enough. 

Mick  would  have  none  of  it. 

"  Their  love  was  the  finest  part  of  them,"  he  cried.  "  It  makes 
me  angry  to  see  Wells  using  the  phrase  '  two  bad  people.'  They 
ought  n't  to  have  apologized  for  themselves :  they  should  have 
justified  themselves  shamelessly  and  gloriously." 

"Well,  they  couldn't  do  that,  even  if  they  wanted  to,"  Mar- 
garet told  him,  "  unless  they  had  posed.  The  whole  weight  of 
the  tradition  against  them  was  bound  to  make  itself  felt  in  their 
minds  now  and  then." 

We  never  finished  our  arguments,  for  Mick  broke  away  and 
rode  violently  over  the  discussion. 

"  This  silly  moral  sanctity,"  he  raved,  "  you  know  it 's  all  rot. 
Bolstering  up  a  lot  of  rotten  nerd-cowardice  by  pretending  it 's 
divinely  ordained.  Look  at  it  from  a  broad  biological  standpoint. 
Try  and  get  away  from  trousers  and  claw-hammer  coats  and  ask 
yourself  what  life  —  life,  I  say  —  has  to  do  with  our  environ- 
ment of  fenced-off  gardens  and  rabbit-marriages.  A  mind  in  tune 
with  the  present  order  of  things  —  a  mind,  I  mean,  that  can  view 
bishops  and  slums,  and  brothels  and  middle-class  weddings  with 
equanimity  —  may  appear  healthy  and  ordinary,  but  really  it 's 
rottenly  diseased.  It 's  a  perfect  hotbed  of  disease  and  filth " 

"  Oh,    for   pity's   sake "    Margaret   protested.     "  Besides 

minds  are  bound  to  be  influenced  by  their  surroundings,  even 
minds  that  are  at  strife  with  them.  Remington  was  influenced, 
and  so  he  could  n't  help  feeling  at  times  that  he  was  wicked " 

Oliver  jerked  himself  noisily  off  the  fender. 

"  So  he  was,"  he  said  heavily,  "  and  the  book  is  a  wicked  book 
—  an  immoral  book." 

"  What  d'  you  mean,  an  immoral  book?  "  Mick  shouted. 

"  I  mean  a  book  that  ought  n't  to  be  in  the  hands  of  any  one 
under  twenty-five.  A  book  that  just  reproduces  the  disorder  and 
ugliness  of  life.  A  book  should  be  beautiful  and  full  of  happy 
things.  Is  n't  life  beastly  enough?  " 

"  You  mean  baby  hands  and  daisies  and  love  among  the  ruins," 
Mick  jeered. 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  99 

"  No,  I  don't,"  Oliver  said  stolidly.  "  Is  that  what  you  mean 
by  beauty?  I  tell  you  it 's  immoral  because  it 's  ugly  and  because 
it  has  an  evil  influence  on  the  adolescent  mind.  You  can't  deny 
it.  Is  n't  Mick  driven  to  rank  lunacy  and  Joy  to  defending  adul- 
tery? " 

And  though  we  joined  in  pouring  scorn  on  his  low-minded, 
Puritan  aesthetics,  we  could  not  shake  him  in  the  least. 

"Remington  should  have  stuck  to  his  wife.  She's  the  finest 
character  in  the  whole  book.  I  'm  not  even  taking  into  account 
the  work  he  flung  down.  If  he  did  n't  think  enough  of  that  him- 
self .  .  ." 

Mai>y~mghts  we  worked  until  twelve  and  then  talked  far  into  the 
morning.  Oh,  the  great  city  of  talk  we  made,  with  twisting  by- 
ways and  well-trodden  streets,  little  houses  set  a-wry  and  filled 
with  small  peering  things,  and  brave  palaces  where  the  citizens 
ruffled  it  i'  the  sun  —  a  city  of  gables  and  thrusting  towers  that 
sank  into  white  ashes  at  the  dawn. 

We  read  Lombroso  and  were  astonished  at  the  number  of  de- 
generates among  our  friends. 

We  discovered  Strindberg,  poring  over  his  few  supreme  plays 
until  the  phantoms  of  his  tortured  mind  peered  at  us  from  the 
shadows,  and  Oliver  drove  Margaret  to  a  frenzy  by  finding  in  her 
all  the  traits  of  a  vampire  woman.  Under  Strindberg's  influence 
we  planned  a  monstrous,  gloomy  tragedy.  There  was  a  cold- 
blooded Scientist  who  was  Mick  and  a  Philosopher  who  was 
Oliver.  Oliver  saw  himself  in  the  role  of  serene,  moralizing  on- 
looker. There  was  another  scientist,  to  whom  we  gave  —  I  can- 
not think  why  —  the  appalling  name  of  Ashton  Pallisser.  He  was 
a  good  scientist  but  weak  in  the  will,  and  to  save  him  from  him- 
self the  Scientist  who  was  Mick  persuaded  a  woman  colleague  to 
sacrifice  herself  in  the  hope  of  restoring  balance  to  the  Pallisser 
mind.  The  Philosopher,  by  his  devilish  insight,  discovered  all, 
and  predicted  the  end,  which  was  horrid.  The  woman,  in  a 
revulsion  of  feeling,  shot  the  cold-blooded  one  and  herself;  Ash- 
ton  Pallisser  committed  suicide,  and  the  Philosopher  was  left  to 
take  the  bodies  out  to  be  cremated.  I  have  somewhere  a  frag- 
ment of  the  great  ruin,  in  which  the  Philosopher  **  proceeds  to 
argue  the  point,"  the  Scientist  "  lays  down  his  position,"  and  Pal- 


100  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

lister,  "  after  some  forced  cheerfulness,"  goes  out  for  the  evening, 
probably  with  the  worst  intentions. 

We  were  working  at  this  outrage  one  evening  when  Margaret 
began  to  laugh. 

"  What 's  the  matter?  "  I  asked. 

She  leaned  back  helplessly. 

"  It 's  so  damn  funny,"  she  said,  and  choked. 

After  a  moment's  indignant  silence  we  saw  how  damn  funny  it 
was,  and  the  fearsome  thing  perished  in  a  burst  of  inextinguishable 
laughter. 

We  were  not  always  talking  or  working  in  that  Herne  Hill  room. 
Anthony  played  for  us,  and  we  sang  for  ourselves.  We  sang  any- 
thing, from  Indian  Love  Lyrics  and  the  "  Star  of  Eve  "  with  its 
immoral  use  of  semitones,  to  attempts  at  Palestrina.  But  our  inti- 
mate songs,  the  songs  we  cherished,  were  worthless  things  that 
slept  under  hedges  and  hung  about  the  streets. 

"  I  want  'ter  see  the  dear  old  home  again," 
and 

"Is  London  where  It  used  to  be? 

Is  the  Strand  still  there? 

Do  the  boys  still  stroll  down  the  west  .  .  ." 

and  the  melancholy  lilt  of  "  Lindy,"  which  we  sang  very  inac- 
curately and  punctuated  with  an  Oxford  sniff  .  .  . 

I  have  drawn  back  the  curtains  and  unlatched  the  window. 
Above  the  sound  of  waters  rushing  and  the  restless  fret  of  pines, 
a  lusty  voice  comes  singing  from  the  other  end  of  the  years  — 


"  It 's  the  go-o-od  ship  Robert  EL  Lee 
Has  come  to  carry  the  cotton  away.' 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

FINALS  gathered  speed  and  swept  upon  us.  During  the  exam- 
ination week  we  never  saw  Michael.  He  went  straight  from 
the  hall  to  Olive,  and  came  home  long  after  midnight.  In  the 
morning  he  got  up  just  in  time  to  gulp  his  breakfast  and  rush  away 
for  the  day's  papers.  Questions  irritated  him,  and  we  did  not 
know  whether  he  was  doing  well  or  ill.  The  examination  over,  he 
hung  about  in  London,  dividing  his  time  between  South  Kensing- 
ton and  the  Natural  History  Museum.  He  made  the  excuse  that 
Sanday  had  promised  to  give  him  his  results  before  they  were 
officially  posted.  The  others  went  home,  but  I  stayed  in  town 
with  a  vague  idea  of  looking  after  him.  He  guessed  this  and 
laughed  at  me. 

We  were  lounging  in  the  common  room  at  King's  when  Sanday 
came  along  the  corridor  and  caught  sight  of  us  through  the  open 
door.  He  thrust  his  long  neck  through  the  opening.  "  Come  up 
to  Gower  Street,  and  see  me  to-night,"  he  said  to  Mick.  "  Er  — 
you  too,  Hearne,"  he  added,  with  a  nod  at  me. 

"That  means  news,"  Mick  said,  with  a  cracked  excitement  in 
his  voice.  "  Let 's  go  somewhere.  We  can't  fool  round  here  all 
day.  Somewhere  outside." 

"  Hampstead?  "  I  ventured.  "  I  've  never  been  to  Hampstead." 
"  Nor  ever  will  —  with  me,"  he  said.  "  Is  n't  there  a  Garden  City 
there?  Who  the  hell  wants  to  see  a  Garden  City?  " 

We  went  to  Richmond  and  lay  drowsily  in  the  tawny,  brittle 
grass  while  the  sun  wheeled  slowly  through  a  colorless  sky. 

We  had  no  money  for  lunch,  but  on  our  way  back  stopped  in 
a  pink  and  green  cafe  and  ordered  tea.  I  came  out  as  parched  as 
I  went  in,  for  Mick  emptied  the  tea-pot,  pressing  his  share  of  the 
bread  and  butter  on  me  by  way  of  compensation. 

The  streets  gave  off  a  terrible  airless  heat.  We  crawled  along 
Oxford  Street  and  through  the  cooler,  dusty  byways  round  the 

Museum. 

101 


102  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

Sanday  was  out  when  we  reached  his  rooms,  but  the  landlady 
knew  Mick  and  showed  us  into  his  sitting-room  on  the  first  floor. 
Mick  flung  himself  on  to  the  couch  and  a  cloud  of  dust  flew  out, 
settling  slowly  in  the  stifling  heat.  All  the  windows  were  shut. 
I  opened  one,  but  slammed  it  up  again  hurriedly  as  a  breath 
of  air  came  drifting  in  from  Euston  Road.  We  heard  Sanday's 
high  voice  in  the  passage  and  a  minute  later  he  came  into  the 
room. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,"  he  said,  "  glad  to  see  you.  Sit  down,  sit 
down.  I  've  been  to  Mudie's.  I  never  go  to  Mudie's  if  I  can  help 
it,  but  I  just  happened  to  see  a  book  I  wanted.  It 's  a  dreadful 
place.  Don't  you  think  it 's  a  dreadful  place?  Full,  absolutely 
full  of  useless  books.  Who  reads  them?  I  don't  know,  I  'm  sure. 
Who  writes  them  is  a  greater  mystery  still.  People  who  write 
novels  ought  to  have  their  brains  sterilized  before  the  horrid 
thing  gets  such  a  grip  on  them.  A  kind  of  mental  castration,  I 
mean.  Don't  you  think  so?  Don't  you  think  so?  " 

He  fussed  round  the  room,  opened  a  window  and  shut  it  up 
again,  lifted  books  from  their  shelves  and  laid  them  down  about 
the  room.  Suddenly  seating  himself,  he  began  to  flutter  the  leaves 
of  one  of  them  with  an  aimless  haste. 

"  Well,  Hearne,"  he  said,  "  well,  what  are  you  doing  with  your- 
self these  days?  " 

"  Just  knocking  round,"  Mick  said.  "  I  Ve  worked  a  little 
in  the  Museum  Reading  Room." 

"Oh  have  you?"  Sanday  interrupted.  "Have  you  really? 
Now  I  could  never  work  in  that  place.  As  soon  as  I  get  seated 
some  one  brings  me  a  lot  of  books  I  never  asked  for.  Or  some 
female  sits  down  in  the  next  chair  and  empties  a  lot  of  letters  and 
pencils  and  hairpins  and  things  out  of  a  little  bag.  She  takes 
her  hat  off,  and  runs  a  hatpin  through  her  hair,  and  I  think 
she  's  transfixed  herself.  Then  she  jabs  me  with  her  elbow  and 
goes  off  into  apologies.  She  rustles  about  with  her  books  and 
fidgets  in  her  chair  and  scratches  away  with  a  little  pen  until  I 
am  quite  feverish  with  apprehension.  Then  off  she  goes  and 
comes  back  with  another  worse  than  herself,  and  they  kiss  and 
whisper  away.  I  said  once  — '  Madam,  you  would  be  doing  me 
an  inestimable  favor  if  you  could  conduct  your  conversation  with 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  103 

fewer  sibilants.'  They  both  bristled  and  glared  at  me,  turned 
their  back  and  talked  for  an  hour.  I  can't  stand  it,  you  know. 
I  have  to  come  away.  It 's  sheer  waste  of  time  for  me  to  go  to 
that  place." 

"  You  might  have  an  appliance  to  go  across  your  head  and  fit 
over  both  ears,"  Mick  suggested  gravely. 

Sanday  looked  up  with  quick  interest.  "Yes,  I  might,"  he 
said.  "  Of  course  I  might.  I  must  think  about  that." 

He  began  to  talk  at  a  great  rate  about  the  experiments  he  was 
conducting  in  the  deserted  laboratory  at  King's,  and  broke  off 
suddenly  to  say  — "  But  then,  you  know,  I  should  still  see  her 
mouth"moving,  and  I  really  think  that  would  be  worse." 

Mick's  lips  framed  the  word  "blinkers."  I  made  a  hurried 
remark  about  the  heat.  Sanday  rolled  a  glazed  eye  at  me  and 
turned  to  Mick. 

"  I  'm  sure  you  want  to  hear  about  the  examination,"  he  said, 
and  fell  abruptly  into  long  silence.  Mick  smoked  on  with  an  im- 
perturbable gravity.  Sanday  sighed,  and  seemed  to  rouse  himself 
with  an  effort. 

"  You  Ve  done  well,"  he  said.  "  You  Ve  done  as  well  as  I 
expected  you  to  do." 

We  waited  again.  "  I  don't  know  what  your  expectations  were, 
sir,"  my  brother  ventured. 

Sanday  sat  bolt  upright.  "  My  expectations?  "  he  said.  "  I 
expected  you  to  distinguish  yourself,  young  man,  and  so  you  have, 
so  you  have." 

A  flush  crept  slowly  up  Mick's  face.  He  examined  his  pipe 
carefully.  "  I  'm  glad  of  that,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  Of  course,"  Sanday  added,  "  some  things  might  have  been 
improved  on.  But  on  the  whole  a  creditable  performance.  A  re- 
markably creditable  performance.  I  congratulate  you,  Hearne." 

"Thanks,  sir." 

"  And  now  you  may  look  forward  to  Cambridge  for  a  year  or  a 
couple  of  years,  until  we  see  how  you  shape  at  original  research, 
and  then  we  '11  see  again.  If  you  stick  to  your  work  and  show 
the  proper  amount  of  development,  you  need  have  no  fear  for  your 
future.  I  can  say  that  without  hesitation." 

There  was  a  long  silence.    I  stared  out  of  the  window.    The 


104  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

houses  hung  in  the  motionless  air.  A  girl  came  out  of  the  swing 
doors  of  a  cafe  and  moved  slowly  away,  a  streak  of  color  across 
my  sight.  Two  taxi-drivers,  leaning  against  their  cabs,  sawed 
monotonously  with  their  arms  in  an  interminable  argument.  I 
glanced  across  the  room.  Mick  was  still  smoking  silently,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  empty  fireplace  and  his  arms  crossed  on  his 
chest.  Sanday  appeared  sunk  in  dejection  on  the  edge  of  the 
couch.  I  realized  with  a  shock  that  he  was  really  watching  Mick 
quite  sharply  with  eyes  that  had  become  bright  and  hard  beneath 
their  colorless  lashes. 

Mick  may  have  been  half-aware  of  the  unseen  scrutiny.  He 
shifted  uneasily  in  his  chair,  and  spoke  at  last  with  a  hint  of 
reluctance. 

*'  I  'm  really  very  grateful  for  the  interest  you  have  taken  in  me, 
sir." 

"  So  you  ought.     Not  at  all,"  Sanday  snapped. 

The  words  came  quickly  now.  "  I  'm  grateful  for  this  Cam- 
bridge offer.  Immensely  grateful.  But  I  don't  think  I  shall  be 
able  to  take  it.  When  it  is  offered  me,  I  mean.  I  should  like  to 
go  to  Cambridge  for  some  things.  I  should  like  it  no  end. 
But  I  could  n't  go  unless  I  'd  made  up  my  mind  to  stick  to  this 
sort  of  life  for  good.  And  I  don't  think  I  can  do  that." 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  the  life?  " 

"There's  nothing  the  matter  with  it  in  a  way,  and  in  a  way 
there 's  everything  the  matter  with  it.  It 's  fine  to  be  able  to 
research,  to  be  sure  of  time  and  liberty  to  do  it.  But  that 's 
not  all.  To  spend  one's  life  between  library  and  lab.,  shut  off 
from  all  the  struggle  and  the  fight  out  there."  He  nodded  at  the 
street.  "  To  pretend  there  is  no  struggle.  To  go  on  making  one's 
little  discoveries,  writing  memoranda,  reading  papers,  growing  old 
and  dried-up "  he  broke  off  with  a  suppressed  vehemence. 

Sanday  nodded.     "  Like  me,"  he  said. 

Mick  made  a  choking  noise  in  his  throat  and  began  with  stum- 
bling eagerness  to  explain. 

Sanday  cut  him  short.  "  Don't  lie,  Hearne,"  he  said.  "  Of 
course  you  were  thinking  of  me.  Why  shouldn't  you  be?  I 
should,  in  your  place."  He  leaned  forward  and  began  to  talk 
with  an  earnest  coherence,  oddly  at  variance  with  the  jerking 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  105 

movements  of  his  hand.  The  long,  twisted  face  with  its  fringe  of 
straggling  hair  took  on  a  stiff,  unwonted  dignity.  "  I  won't  pre- 
tend, it 's  no  use  pretending,"  he  said,  "  that  the  life  we  're  offer- 
ing you  entails  no  sacrifice.  It  entails  sacrifices  which  I  can  un- 
derstand even  better  than  you,  though  you  may  not  believe  that." 
A  curious  light  flickered  and  died  in  his  eyes.  "  It  means  giving 
up  certain  definite  things.  Cutting  off  parts  of  your  activity. 
Leaving  them  to  dry  up  and  die.  It  means  all  that  —  and  other 
things.  Some  one  —  a  clever  Jew  —  said  that  a  politician  should 
have  a  wife  or  mistress  to  whom  he  came  with  repugnance  at  night 
and  left  gladly  in  the  morning.  And  if  that  is  true  of  a  little 
intriguing  chatterer,  how  much  more  likely  is  it  to  be  true  of  a 
man  of  science!  For  look  you  what  science  offers  in  return  for 
your  life.  To  take  your  place  in  a  line  that  stretches  back  to  the 
beginning  of  the  world.  That  line  runs  like  a  white  thread 
through  the  dark  ages.  It  shines  steadily  in  the  myriad-hued  radi- 
ance of  Greece.  It  burns  with  a  dark  flame  in  the  old  grave  ages 
of  Empires  that  are  dead  —  dead  and  vanished  utterly  from  our 
sight,  as  if  they  had  never  been,  with  all  their  tale  of  men  who 
strove  and  loved,  and  were  jealous  and  brave,  and  made  tre- 
mendous decisions  and  wrought  themselves  to  great  renunciations. 
All  are  gone,  while  science  lives.  Never  a  State  or  a  faith  that 
can  show  a  bloodier  roll  of  martyrs,  or  purer  passion  of  devo- 
tion, or  nobler  achievement."  His  voice  rose  on  an  exultant  note. 
"  Where  men  fumble  and  lie  to  each  other  and  themselves,  sci- 
ence faces  boldly  to  the  truth  and  sets  herself  to  know.  Against 
all  the  ignorance  and  futile  longings  and  nameless  apprehensions 
that  men  have  heaped  up  and  called  God,  she  opposes  the  death- 
less courage  that  will  not  be  crushed  by  a  fear  out  of  the  darkness 
or  turned  aside  by  comfortable  lies.  You  give  up  —  what  is  it 
you  give  up?  Little  strivings,  restless,  feeble  longings  —  things 
too  small  to  live  in  thought,  and  you  get  eternal  life.  Out  of 
death  into  life." 

He  seemed  to  shrink  in  his  chair.  The  lines  of  strain  came  back 
to  his  face  and  he  ran  a  nervous  hand  through  his  reddish  wisps 
of  hair.  "  I  mean,"  he  stammered,  "  there  's  a  lot  you  should 
think  of  before  you  decide  to  give  up  the  chances  we  offer  you." 

When  we  were  leaving  he  held  Mick's  hand  in  an  absent  sort 


106  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

of  way.  "  If  you  should,"  he  said  rapidly,  "  mind  I  'm  not  ad- 
vising you  to  such  a  course  —  but  if  you  should  find  that  you 
must,  in  honesty,  refuse  the  Cambridge  scholarship,  I  might  be 
able  to  help  you  to  something  else.  The  man  on  the  agricultural 
experiment  station  in  India  is  a  friend  of  mine.  I  can't  say  any- 
thing more;  I  'd  try  to  help  you.  But  think  it  over.  You  '11  have 
plenty  of  time  before  you  need  decide." 

We  left  him  standing  in  the  doorway,  peering  into  the  shadows 
that  deepened  round  him  as  he  stood. 

While  we  waited  at  King's  Cross  for  the  'bus  to  Camberwell 
Green  Mick  discovered  that  he  was  penniless.  I  sought  in  all 
my  pockets  and  found  three-halfpennies  and  a  Greek  coin  that 
was  remotely  like  a  shilling. 

Mick  eyed  it  doubtfully.  "  Do  you  think  they  'd  take  it?  "  he 
said. 

"  I  don't  think  they  would." 

He  darted  across  the  road  and  I  saw  him  offer  the  coin  to  a 
woman  bulging  behind  the  counter  of  a  small  fruit  shop.  When 
I  reached  them  she  was  turning  it  over  in  her  hand. 

"  Nay,"  she  said,  in  a  broad  north-country  accent,  "  I  can't  dea 
owt  wi'  that." 

Mick  smiled  like  a  little  prattling  child.  "  Tha  wean't  let  a  lad 
fra'  t'owd  spot  gang  trapsing  ower  Lunnon  wi'  nowt  's  mich  as  a 
little  rotten  apple  in  's  pocket?  "  he  said. 

"  Tha'  conies  fra'  Yorkshire?  "  she  cried.  "  Eh,  lad  tha  's  wel- 
come. Come  thi  ways  in." 

She  led  and  pushed  us  into  the  small  hot  room  at  the  back  of 
the  shop.  A  red-faced  gowk  of  a  lad  was  lounging  in  the  rock- 
ing chair.  Him  she  routed  out  and  bade  bestir  himself  to  get  the 
supper.  We  had  such  a  meal  as  we  had  not  seen  since  we  left 
the  North  and  departed  at  last  with  our  'bus  fares  in  our  hands 
and  our  pockets  full  of  nuts  and  apples.  Mick  flung  both  arms 
round  her.  Apples  burst  from  him  and  shot  away  in  all  direc- 
tions. She  groped  for  them  and  returned  them  to  his  pockets  with 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Tha  's  welcome,"  she  said.  "  Tha  's  welcome  to  a  bit  and  sup 
as  long 's  iwer  a  've  got  'un.  Him  an'  all,"  she  added  as  an  after- 
thought. 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  107 

"That's  a  good  kind  soul,"  Mick  remarked,  as  we  climbed 
unsteadily  to  the  top  of  the  'bus. 

He  grabbed  frantically  at  the  pineapple  under  his  arm.  "  I 
feel  like  a  Sunday  school  treat.  Now,  there  's  the  scientific  mind 
for  you.  I  picked  her  out  in  the  first  place  because  she  looked 
kind-hearted  and  I  thought  she  might  give  me  a  few  pence  for 
the  thing.  But  when  she  opened  her  mouth  I  could  have  danced 
'for  joy." 

Next  day  we  went  north,  glad  at  heart  to  hear  again  the  deep, 
slow  speech  of  northern  tongues,  breathe  the  good  north  air  and 
look  upon  the  gaunt  hills  and  the  golden  vales  that  sleep  between. 
My  mother  seemed  worn  and  tired.  Her  eyes  shone  when  Mick 
told  her  that  he  had  done  well,  done  indeed  far  better  than  he 
had  expected.  He  repeated  Sanday's  sparse  praise  with  a  mock 
boastfulness  that  annoyed  her. 

"  And  what  next?  "  she  asked  sharply. 

"  Oh,"  Mick  said,  "  Sanday  thinks  I  '11  be  a  professor  before 
I  die.  They  're  going  to  offer  me  a  scholarship  to  Cambridge. 
I  have  n't  made  up  my  mind  about  it  yet." 

She  turned  round  at  that,  with  a  white-faced  anger. 
**  Your  mind,"  she  said,  "  is  it  always  to  be  your  mind  and 
what  you  want?  Is  it  nothing  to  you  that  I  have  starved  and 
scraped  to  get  you  the  chance  to  study,  that  you  can  be  talking  of 
making  up  your  mind  whether  it 's  all  to  be  wasted  and  gone  for 
nothin?  "  She  held  out  her  trembling  hands.  "  Look  at  my 
hands,"  she  said.  "  Cracked  and  spoilt,  and  seamed  with  black, 
so  that  you  could  keep  yours  soft  and  useless.  How  many  lads  of 
your  age  are  keeping  their  mothers  in  idleness,  while  you  —  you." 
She  choked.  "  Oh,"  she  wailed,  "  what  does  one  get  children  for 
and  suffer  and  slave  and  starve  for  them?  And  they  take  it  all 
as  if  it  were  nought,  and  think  of  nought  but  their  own  wilful- 
ness.  They  're  trouble  and  disappointment  and  a  pain  at  the 
heart  from  the  moment  they  're  born  to  the  moment  you  die  and 
are  free  of  them."  She  pressed  her  hand  upon  her  breast.  "  Will 
you  never  know  your  own  mind?  "  she  cried  bitterly,  and  left  him 
standing,  mute  and  pale,  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"  Will  you  come  out  with  me,  Joy?  "  he  got  out  at  last. 
We  tramped  as  far  as  Hackness  that  day,  and  Mick  said  hardly 


108  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

a  word.  Only  once,  when  we  were  lying  in  the  heather,  he  rolled 
over  on  his  face  and  cried  impatiently — "Oh,  to  be  out  of  it! 
Look  you,  Joy,  if  it  weren't  for  the  mother  and  disappointing 
her  I  'd  go  to-morrow.  I  'd  take  Sanday's  offer  and  go  to  India." 

"  How  do  you  think  you  'd  be  better  off  in  India?  "  I  said. 
"  You  'd  be  taking  yourself  with  you." 

"  Myself 's  good  enough  company,"  he  retorted.  "  And 
should  n't  I  be  leaving  behind  all  their  stuffy  professorial  cant? 

Parochial  socialisms.  Sty  morals.  That  girl "  he  paused 

and  left  that.  "  I  feel  hemmed  round  by  people  all  pressing  me 
towards  things  I  don't  want  to  do  —  or  be." 

And  later — "How  can  I  know  my  own  mind?  What  is  in 
my  mind?  " 

I  sat  that  night  in  a  corner  of  the  Spa  gardens.  Through 
the  windows  of  the  theater  the  intolerable  sweet  crying  of  a  violin 
came  borne  upon  the  dizzy  air.  The  hidden  surf  murmured  by 
the  wall.  All  the  wide  dominion  of  the  night  was  alive  with  a 
secret  solemn  movement.  Only  my  mind  refused  its  accord  in 
the  harmony.  I  was  restless  and  fought  against  the  tide  that 
ebbed  through  the  world  and  bore  away  the  silly  cries  and  silenced 
the  brief  laughter. 

"  What  is  in  my  mind?  " 

When  we  were  children  on  the  farm  the  women  told  us  tales 
of  men  who  came  home  late  across  the  moor  and  took  the  short 
cut  through  the  desolate  churchyard.  Woe  to  him  who  was  so 
rash  or  stupid  as  to  find  himself  there  at  midnight.  For  men  had 
been  known  to  return  thence,  dumb  and  blasted  with  the  horrors 
they  had  looked  upon.  We  imagined  that  a  particularly  gro- 
tesque idiot,  who  shambled  through  the  village  on  hands  and 
feet,  had  been  one  of  these  luckless  ones.  Nothing  could  persuade 
us  to  pass  the  churchyard  after  dark.  It  had  indeed  a  gray  and 
somber  air,  even  in  the  sunlight.  The  heather  that  crept  up  to  its 
very  edge  was  always  brown  and  dead  beneath  the  crumbling 
walls.  We  gathered  that  it  was  scorched,  and  filled  in  the  rest  of 
the  tale  from  the  sermons  of  the  Rev.  Strut,  who  knew  hell  down 
to  its  red-hot  cobblestones  and  the  Devil  as  a  dear  friend. 

I  wondered  that  night  whether  a  man  might  not  be  dumb  and 
blasted  who  had  looked  only  upon  his  own  mind.  "  What  is  in 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  109 

my  mind?  "  A  dreary  upland,  with  rude  altars  stained  by  the 
blood  of  a  dread  sacrifice.  Bestial  forms  that  rent  each  other  and 
defiled  what  they  touched.  A  fear-stricken,  naked  thing  that 
cowered  under  the  crashing  heavens.  One  that  held  yearning 
arms  to  the  wonder  of  the  sun.  A  man,  pricked  by  a  need  greater 
than  his  fear,  creeping  and  peering  through  the  sacred  groves 
to  understand  the  mystery  of  the  God.  One  who  cried  defiance 
and  bared  his  breast  to  the  lightning.  One  who  looked  with  a 
strange  new  pain  at  an  alien  misery.  One  who  ran  and  toiled 
with  bleeding  hands  at  the  stones  in  the  road  beneath  the  feet 
of  othe^F-men. 

In  a  metaphorical  burst  of  unwonted  audacity,  psychologists 
and  philosophers  have  likened  the  mind  to  a  stream.  On  the 
surface  lie  the  conscious  thoughts  and  desires,  and  far  below  run 
the  hidden  currents  of  impulses  and  feelings  that  rarely  emerge 
into  the  light  of  day.  The  more  geologically  inclined  talk  of  the 
strata  of  the  mind.  These  similes  and  phrases  seem  too  simple 
and  tidy  to  hold  more  than  a  suggestion  of  the  truth.  I  do  not 
believe  that  the  creatures  of  the  mind  —  savage,  wizard,  skeptic, 
priest,  Christ  —  inhabit  an  orderly  mansion  with  the  least  reput- 
able confined  in  the  lowest  dungeon,  to  emerge  only  at  catastro- 
phic moments.  The  savage  will  be  found  clothed  in  black  vicuna, 
taking  tea  upstairs,  or  officiating  at  High  Mass.  His  fears  tor- 
ment the  skeptic  and  his  lusts  defile  the  Christ  .  .  . 

I  thought  of  Sanday  and  his  mind  turned  always  to  some 
ordered  and  wonderful  vision  of  a  world  set  free  by  Science. 
I  wondered  what  bowed,  mis-shapen  creatures  ran  and  scurried 
round  the  fringes  of  that  disciplined  march  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XIX 

MICK  promised  my  mother  to  accept  the  scholarship  and  stay 
in  England.  She  would  not  hear  of  India.  The  name 
conjured  up  visions  wherein  naked  savages  crawled  through 
jungles  with  knives  between  their  teeth,  and  man-eating  tigers 
leaped  upon  Englishmen  in  eyeglasses  and  white  hats.  Mick  was 
very  cheerful  about  his  future.  He  talked  a  good  deal  of  the  day 
when  the  world  would  be  ruled  by  the  scientist.  "  Kings  used  to 
tremble  before  the  wizard,"  he  said.  "  The  wizard  became  a 
priest  and  the  priest  a  man  of  learning.  There  will  come  a  time 
when  emperors  and  plutocratic  grocers  will  take  their  rightful 
place  below  the  thinker  who  serves,  not  the  greed  of  a  few,  but 
the  good  of  all." 

His  enthusiasm  burned  with  a  fine  flame,  but  it  seemed  to  me 
that  he  fed  it  from  himself,  taking  recklessly  from  his  dwindling 
stock  of  ideals  and  ambitions  to  keep  it  going.  He  went  down  to 
the  school  to  see  old  Silcox,  and  gladdened  the  dear  man's  heart 
with  a  hypocritical  outburst  about  the  gratitude  and  regret  with 
which  he  looked  back  upon  his  schooldays.  He  even  went  to 
chapel  with  my  mother.  "Do  I  smell  of  sanctity,  Joy?"  he 
asked,  when  he  came  home.  "  I  'm  sure  I  ought  to.  I  sat  next 
to  old  Butterby,  who  starves  his  assistants  and  seduces  his  girls: 
he  wrestled  with  God  for  an  hour,  right  at  my  elbow.  I  got  a 
whiff  from  the  crystal  sea." 

He  wrote  to  Olive  at  great  length,  and  had  in  return  scrappy 
letters  that  seemed  to  give  him  little  satisfaction.  "  She  's  hav- 
ing a  rare  old  time,  punting  and  dancing,"  he  said  savagely. 

My  mother  regarded  him  with  a  tremulous  happiness.  Even 
his  brothers  began  to  believe  in  his  regeneration. 

And  then  he  went  back  on  all  his  promises,  threw  up  the 
scholarship,  and  left  England  without  money  or  plans,  or  indeed 
any  idea  except  to  get  away  and  be  free. 

We  returned  to  London  in  September,  I  with  a  biological 

110 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  111 

scholarship,  to  study  at  South  Kensington,  and  Oliver  to  finish 
his  course.  Michael  came  with  us  to  make  final  arrangements 
for  his  post-graduate  work.  We  met  Sanday  unexpectedly  in 
the  quad.  He  stared  and  blinked  at  Mick.  "  So  you  Ve  given 
in,"  he  said  queerly.  And  then,  in  a  different  tone — "Most 
gratifying  results,  Hearne.  We  expect  good  things  from  your 
work  at  Cambridge." 

Mick  stood  looking  after  him.  "  He  's  sorry  I  'm  staying  in 
England,"  he  said  slowly.  "The  funny  old  bird.  After  all 
he  said." 

The*next  day  he  took  himself  to  South  Kensington,  and  there- 
after we  saw  little  of  him. 

He  had  not  expected  to  be  in  town  more  than  a  fortnight, 
but  they  kept  him  hanging  on  until  the  middle  of  December. 
It  was  a  delay  that  altered  the  whole  course  of  his  life.  If  I  had 
not  been  so  preoccupied  with  myself  I  must  have  seen  marks 
of  the  strain  that  was  becoming  unendurable.  I  noticed  nothing. 
The  end  came  quickly. 

It  wanted  a  week  until  Mick  was  due  at  Cambridge.  He  was 
never  in  before  midnight,  and  one  night  did  not  come  in  at  all. 
He  turned  up  on  the  following  evening,  tired  and  dusty,  full  of  a 
repressed  excitement  that  showed  itself  in  his  restless  movements 
from  bookcase  to  chair  and  chair  to  bookcase.  At  last  he 
tumbled  the  whole  contents  of  his  shelves  upon  the  floor,  and 
went  down  on  his  knees  to  sort  them  out. 

"  For  goodness'  sake,  be  quiet,"  Oliver  growled.  "  If  you 
don't  want  to  work,  you  needn't  prevent  every  one  else  from 
doing  so." 

Mick  looked  at  him  in  swift  amusement.  "  Did  it  have  its 
brain  rubbed  the  wrong  way?  So  sorry.  But  keep  cool:  to- 
morrow you  '11  be  quit  of  me  for  good.  I  'm  off  to  South  America 
on  a  windjammer." 

Anthony  grinned,  and  said  — "  Good  enough."  I  glanced  up 
for  a  minute,  and  went  on  with  my  work.  There  was  a  brief 
silence,  and  then  Margaret  pushed  away  her  books. 

"  You  don't  mean  anything,  I  suppose?  " 

"  You  're  a  bright  crowd,"  Mick  said.  "  A  lot  of  stony-hearted, 
cold-blooded  fishmongers.  Next  time  I  go  to  South  America. 


112  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

I  '11  spare  you  the  parting  tears  and  the  tender  farewells.  I  'm 
damned  if  I  won't.  Where  do  you  suppose  I  Ve  been  all  day?  " 

Oliver  opened  his  mouth  and  shut  it  again  on  the  obvious. 

"  I  Ve  been  scrounging  round  from  Fenchurch  Street  to  Tidal 
Basin,  and  I  've  signed  on  with  the  captain  of  a  sailing  ship  that 
sails  for  Buenos  Ayres  the  day  after  to-morrow.  I  '11  be  on  board 
to-morrow  night  while  you  're  bemusing  your  brains  in  this  — 
kennel,  and  moving  down  the  river  when  you  're  sleeping  the 
sleep  of  the  damned  and  done-for." 

We  did  not  doubt  his  words  at  all. 

Oliver  said,  "You  fool." 

Margaret  spoke  with  a  kind  of  wail.  "  Oh,  you  must  be  mad. 
A  sailing  ship.  You  '11  die  on  the  voyage.  You  've  got  no 
proper  clothes.  They  're  dreadful  things :  you  've  no  idea  of  the 
sort  of  life  you  '11  lead.  You  don't  mean  it." 

"  But  I  do.  And  as  for  clothes,  there 's  a  man  going  to  have 
everything  I  want  ready  for  me  to-morrow." 

"  He  '11  cheat  you,"  Margaret  said,  "  and  you  Ve  got  no  money. 
The  life  will  kill  you." 

"  Well,  you  don't  suppose  I  'm  going  to  spend  all  my  days  be- 
fore the  mast,  do  you?  "  Mick  shouted.  "  It 's  only  to  get  away. 
I  '11  find  plenty  to  do  in  South  America.  I  'm  going  to  look  up 
John  Bellers,  who  went  out  there  from  King's  last  year.  He 
does  things  with  cattle  somewhere  in  the  Argentine.  He  gave  me 
an  address  in  Buenos  Ayres  and  said  it  would  always  find  him." 

"  Why  not  wait  and  see  what  Sanday  can  do  for  you?  "  I 
asked. 

He  shook  his  head.     "  I  Ve  got  to  get  away  now." 

We  gave  in  at  last  and  tried  to  treat  the  matter  in  the  proper 
spirit.  Between  us  we  could  only  raise  seven  or  eight  pounds. 

"  I  could  get  you  more,"  Margaret  ventured,  "  if  you  'd  wait." 

Mick,  grinned.  "  You  '11  need  more,"  he  said.  "  You  can't 
live  on  the  memory  of  my  sweet  soul  until  next  pay-day." 

He  stowed  the  money  in  an  inner  pocket.  "  Now,"  he  said, 
"  let 's  talk  about  ghouls  or  something  really  pleasant  for  a 
change." 

We  talked  with  a  heavy-footed  cheerfulness  until  Anthony 
and  Oliver  went  to  bed.  As  the  door  shut  behind  them,  Mick 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  113 

leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  a  sigh.  "  They  're  good  fellows," 
he  said,  "but  our  little  brother  is  rather  heavy  in  the  hand, 
don't  you  think?  " 

Margaret  laughed.  "Why  are  you  going  to  South  America? 
Js  it  because  of  that  girl  ?  " 

Michael  raised  his  eyebrows.  "Leading  questions  ruled  out 
of  order,"  he  said,  and  became  abruptly  serious.  "  If  I  said  that 
it  was,  I  'd  be  telling  about  half  the  truth.  It 's  partly  Olive  — 
but  I  guess  I  'd  have  gone  anyway.  She  's  only  been  one  dissatis- 
faction among  many.  I  'm  dissatisfied  with  the  sort  of  life  I  'd 
live  i^ I  stayed  here.  I  'd  get  just  like  Sanday.  You  can  imagine 
me  in  twenty  years'  time,  with  all  my  habits  crusted  on  me, 
writing  papers,  lecturing,  turning  off  my  little  jokes  on  suc- 
ceeding generations  of  students  like  a  mannered  automaton.  I 
could  n't  stand  it." 

"  All  professors  are  not  Sandays,"  Margaret  interrupted. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  but  I  should  have  been.  I  can  imagine 
myself  just  such  a  lopsided  prodigy  of  work  and  nerves.  I  could 
never  be  a  really  sound  and  heavy-handed  professor,  but  the 
academic  atmosphere  would  have  got  at  me  just  the  same. 
There  's  no  life  in  the  English  academicians.  They  exist  in  a  kind 
of  fine-spun  unreality,  getting  fearfully  excited  about  things  that 
don't  matter,  and  making  awful  fools  of  themselves  when  they 
come  meddling  into  flesh  and  blood  problems.  They  're  warped 
by  the  tradition  —  like  bishops.  I  should  have  had  to  stifle  a 
whole  part  of  me,  and  it  would  have  worked  its  way  out  in  a 
licensed  eccentricity.  Students  would  wax  witty  about  my  little 
ways,  I  should  put  jokes  about  the  pithecantropus  erectus  into 
my  books,  and  have  reviewers  writing  of  my  Gallic  style.  Poor 
devils,  they  're  so  used  to  the  abysmal  dullness  of  learned  men 
that  they  lose  their  heads  when  they  find  one  with  a  dawning 
sense  of  style.  The  whole  thing  —  the  whole  scientific  life,  as  it 
has  to  be  lived  in  a  commercial  world  —  is  one-sided  and  unreal. 
In  a  sense,  it's  the  only  real  life:  in  another  sense  it's  divorced 
from  reality  and  exists  on  a  deliberate  make-believe  of  sham  util- 
ity. Scientists  are  only  tolerated  because  they  make  a  discovery 
that  will  treble  profits,  or  invent  a  new  and  ghastlier  instrument 
of  death.  They  're  not  expected  to  trouble  about  the  destination 


114  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

of  the  profits,  or  the  use  of  their  new  explosives.  They  're  serv- 
ants who  acquiesce  in  their  servitude.  They  squirm  with  pleas- 
ure when  some  fat  profiteer  talks  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek 
about  the  glories  of  science.  They  lap  up  that  sort  of  insolence 
and  sit  on  their  haunches  for  more.  Panders.  That 's  what  they 
are.  Panders  and  pimps  to  the  iniquitous  system  that  bleeds  the 
nations  for  the  enrichment  of  a  few.  Do  you  suppose  I  could 
acquiesce  in  that  sort  of  smug,  unthinking  treachery?  " 

"  You  need  n't "  I  began. 

"  I  know  I  need  n't  and  I  know  I  should  if  I  stayed."  He 
laughed,  and  leaned  forward  to  poke  a  twisted  paper  into  the 
blaze.  His  pipe  lit,  he  gesticulated  with  the  burning  remnant. 
"  I  'm  not  giving  myself  the  chance  of  going  under  to  it,"  he 
said,  and  sat  staring  at  the  curling  ashes  in  the  fender. 

"  I  Ve  made  a  mess  of  things.  They  '11  all  think  so  —  my 
mother,  Silcox,  the  professors.  They  '11  never  understand.  I 
don't  understand  it  myself.  I  have  a  scientific  genius.  I  '11  never 
be  happy  until  I  get  back  to  science  in  some  form  or  another, 
and  yet  I  could  n't  fit  myself  into  the  life  that  was  arranged  for 
me.  I  want  something  freer  —  or  bigger.  If  the  world  were 
simpler  .  .  .  No,  that  doesn't  seem  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  it:  life  is  simple  enough  for  old  Sanday,  would  have  been 
simple  enough  for  me.  An  artificial  simplicity?  That's  nearer 
to  it.  The  contrast  between  the  sham  peace  of  his  life  and  the 
strife  outside.  From  their  laboratories  they  can  see  the  strife, 
and  they  ignore  it,  let  it  grow  fiercer  and  more  bitter,  driving  on 
to  some  unthinkable  disaster,  powerless  to  avert  it.  I  suppose 
they  dare  n't  see  it." 

He  must  have  been  talking  to  himself. 

"Am  I  making  all  this  up?  Trying  to  explain  my  failure  to 
myself?  Or  is  it  true?  Cloistered  studies  and  laboratories 
where  men  gather  up  a  science  of  humanity  while,  outside, 
humanity  is  maimed  and  spoiled  and  thwarted,  wastes  itself  in 
blind,  useless  activities,  struggles  on  in  confusion  and  mis- 
management to  —  I  don't  know  where  the  struggle  and  confusion 
lead.  One  can't  serve  two  masters.  Be  in  the  laboratory  and 
in  the  struggle.  Divided  energies.  Distrust  from  both  sides. 
There 's  no  cooperation,  no  call  for  scientific  rule."  He  looked 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  115 

up  with  a  quick  smile.  "Do  you  remember  the  Samurai,  and 
their  Greater  and  Lesser  Rule?  That's  fine,  you  know.  Only 
a  scientist  could  have  thought  of  it.  Only  men  who  were  scien- 
tists and  rulers  both  could  carry  it  through."  His  face  bright- 
ened. "  My  life  's  only  beginning,  after  all.  I  '11  make  some- 
thing of  it  yet.  But  not  here.  I  couldn't  have  done  anything 
here." 

"  You  see,"  he  added  slowly,  "  there  'd  have  been  other  things 
to  contend  with."  He  hesitated.  "  I  've  made  a  damned  mess 
of  things,"  he  said  cheerfully.  A  reminiscent  smile  flickered 
round  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

"  I  thought  things  were  going  wrong,"  he  said.  "  When  I 
was  at  home  this  summer  I  thought  they  were  wrong.  She 
wrote  such  queer  letters.  I  did  n't  tell  her  I  was  coming  up,  and 
when  I  went  to  see  her,  of  course  she  did  n't  expect  me.  There 
was  a  man  with  her,  a  pleasant-looking  enough  young  fool.  I 
thought  the  girl  was  trying  to  tell  me  something  in  the  passage, 
but  I  took  no  notice  of  her  and  just  walked  in.  They  were 
standing  close  together,  and  the  man  seemed  taken  aback.  He 
got  himself  away,  and  I  turned  to  look  at  Olive.  I  suppose 
I  was  n't  seeing  things  straight,  but  she  looked  different  to  me. 
I  turned  sick  and  disgusted.  'You  don't  seem  pleased  to  see 
me,'  I  said. 

"  '  Why  should  I  be?  '  she  said  hardly.  '  You  did  n't  expect  me 
to  greet  you  with  open  arms  after  a  letter  like  that.'  She  fum- 
bled in  her  dress,  and  flung  a  letter  on  the  table.  It  was  the  last 
I  had  written  her.  I  suppose  it  had  its  share  of  bitter,  ugly 
things,  but  she  might  have  seen  the  pain  as  well.  She  ought  to 
have  seen  it. 

"  '  Who  's  that  man?  '  I  asked  her. 

"She  looked  at  me  for  a  second:  I  couldn't  believe  it  was 
really  hatred  I  saw  in  her  eyes.  Then  she  said  — '  He  's  quite  a 
nice  boy.  A  poet.  I  met  him  at  a  dance  at  Henley.  He's  a 
solicitor's  clerk.  You  're  not  jealous,  are  you?  ' 

"  Jealous!  Me!  Of  an  embryo  lawyer  she  'd  met  at  a  dance! 
I  could  have  turned  and  left  her  then.  I  wish  I  had.  I  did  n't, 
of  course.  I  took  her  in  my  arms  and  let  her  soothe  me  and  call 
me  her  cross  darling.  I  wanted  her  so  that  I  did  n't  care."  He 


116  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

laughed,  a  quick,  low  laughter  that  broke  off  in  his  throat.  "  She 
let  me  have  her  to  keep  me  quiet." 

He  thrust  his  face  forward  in  the  firelight,  with  a  half  un- 
conscious grimace  of  distaste.  "  It  opened  my  eyes.  I  saw 
things  I  had  n't  seen  before.  Her  attitude  to  her  mother.  The 
way  her  mother  treated  her,  and  the  way  she  treated  me.  I 
sensed  a  conspiracy  of  silence  —  a  mean,  dirty  silence.  I  used  to 
swear  I  'd  give  her  up,  but  I  went  back  to  her  again,  and  she  kissed 
me  and  stroked  me.  She 's  a  pleasing  little  animal.  Then  one 
day  I  saw  her  coming  out  of  a  cafe  in  Regent  Street  with  the 
rhyming  clerk.  He  held  the  door  open  for  her,  and  rested  one 
hand  on  her  shoulder.  She  was  smiling  up  at  him.  I  knew  then. 
I  knew,  without  any  other  proof,  that  she  'd  play  me  false,  and 
lie  about  it,  and  I  should  believe  her,  and  crawl  for  more  lies  .  .  . 
I  went  to  her  again  that  night  for  the  last  time  .  .  .  She  does  n't 
know  about  South  America.  They  think  I  'm  going  to  be  a  pro- 
fessor and  marry  her.  I  shall  write  her  and  post  the  letter  on 
the  quay.  I  was  really  taking  my  leave  of  her  that  night, 
only  she  did  n't  know  it,  and  thought  me  very  loving  and 
deluded." 

"  That 's  rather  horrible,"  Margaret  said  suddenly. 

"To  go  like  that?"  Mick  said.  "You  think  it's  not  fair. 
Well,  how  have  they  treated  me?  "  His  voice  rose.  "  My  God, 
I  sha'n't  feel  free  —  or  clean  —  until  I  Ve  put  a  continent  between 
us.  She  's  a  fool,  I  tell  you,  a  dirty  little  fool.  And  if  I  stayed 
I  'd  be  no  better." 

"  I  was  n't  thinking  of  your  —  flight,"  Margaret  answered. 
"  I  was  thinking  of  that  last  night.  It  seems  cruel,  almost 
inhuman." 

Mick  stared.  "I  don't  see  that,"  he  said,  and  then,  with  a 
sudden  change  of  tone — "Margaret,  my  dear,  are  you  sorry 
to  lose  me?  We  've  been  friends,  eh?  " 

Margaret  flung  out  her  hands.  "  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  if  only  you 
were  n't  going.  I  wish  I  were  coming  with  you.  I  wish  —  I 
wish  .  .  ."  She  broke  into  a  fit  of  weeping.  Michael  opened 
his  arms.  She  clung  to  him,  and  he  soothed  her  as  if  she  had  been 
a  child, 


CHAPTER  XX 

MICHAEL  had  been  gone  two  days  when  Margaret  had  a  brief 
letter  from  Olive  Champion.     "  I  've  got  no  claim  on  you," 
she  wrote,  "  but  I  'd  be  glad  if  you  would  come  and  see  me." 

Margaret  went  reluctantly.  "  I  suppose  I  '11  have  to  go," 
she  said.  "  Mick's  little  ways  come  rather  hard  upon  his  friends, 
though,  don't  they?  You  can  meet  me  in  the  South  Kensington 
tube  station  if  you  like,  Joy." 

She  came  about  six  o'clock.  "  I  don't  want  to  sit  in  a  crowded 
train,"  she  said.  "  Let 's  try  for  the  top  of  a  'bus." 

We  were  in  Piccadilly  when  she  spoke  of  her  visit.  Olive  had 
come  up  to  the  situation  in  picturesque  but  trying  fashion,  "  like 
a  stricken  mannequin,  all  in  black  soft  stuff  with  a  rose  at  her 
throat." 

I  laughed. 

"  No,  I  'm  sorry  I  said  that,"  Margaret  cried.  **  She  's  hurt 
underneath  it  all  —  hurt  and  sore.  She  did  care,  I  think;  but  he 
was  n't  enough  of  a  fool  to  satisfy  her  properly." 

"Was  she  — civil?" 

"  Oh  yes.  She  was  dreadfully  dignified  at  first.  '  Where  has 
he  gone?  '  she  asked.  I  told  her  all  we  knew.  Then  suddenly 
she  broke  out  — *  Oh,  why  did  he  go  ?  I  don't  understand.' 
She  almost  wrung  her  hands.  Her  grief  was  incongruous  some- 
how, as  if  an  alien  power  had  got  inside  a  comic  mask  and  was 
twisting  and  distorting  it.  She  turned  on  me  once.  '  You  Ve 
looked  down  on  me  —  all  of  you.  What  does  college  teach  a 
woman  about  love?  I  loved  him  better  than  any  of  you  could  — 
with  all  your  clever  talk.  You  've  set  him  against  me.'  She 
rubbed  at  her  tears.  I  could  only  stare  at  her.  I  felt  stupid 
and  ashamed.  We  have  despised  her,  though  not  for  the  things 
she  seemed  to  think.  I  was  despising  her  then  because  she  could 
give  way  like  that,  and  talk  so  absurdly.  She  felt  it,  I  think. 
She  stiffened  herself,  and  clutched  at  her  role.  *  You  don't  know 

117 


118  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

how  I  loved  him,'  she  said.  '  I  gave  him  everything,  all  I  had. 
My  life  is  wasted  and  empty  now.'  My  pity  hardened  a  bit.  I 
felt  that  she  could  n't  give  much." 

Margaret  looked  at  me  with  a  rather  twisted  smile.  "  I  'm  a 
superior-minded  beast,  Joy,  for  all  my  pretense  at  freedom  of 
thought." 

"  Oh,  my  dear "  I  began. 

"  Don't  interrupt  me,"  she  said  quickly.  "  You  're  upsetting 
all  my  psychological  effects.  Let  me  finish  about  Olive.  I  tried 
to  tell  her  I  was  sorry,  but  she  did  n't  believe  me.  I  tried  to 
make  her  feel  that  I  was  sorry,  but  she  'd  got  back  on  to  her 
farcical,  pitiful  dignity,  and  I  could  n't  reach  her  at  all.  She  was 
pitiful  and  yet  I  didn't  feel  sorry  for  her.  It's  not  just  that 
Michael  is  my  friend.  But  her  queer,  deliberate  pose  would  keep 
thrusting  itself  at  me.  She  gesticulated  like  a  marionette.  In 
some  fashion,  her  grief  was  real,  but  she  was  not.  She  had  a  mo- 
ment of  reality  just  before  I  left.  '  I  suppose  he  was  bored,'  she 
said.  '  I  remember  he  got  bored  with  his  work,  although  he  was 
so  keen  on  it  and  so  clever.  He  got  bored  with  London.  He 
must  have  been  bored  with  me.'  Her  eyes  blazed.  '  I  think  he  is 
the  most  selfish  man  I  have  ever  known,'  she  cried.  When  she 
was  opening  the  door  for  me,  I  said  awkwardly,  '  If  there  is  any- 
thing I  can  do '  '  I  want  nothing  of  any  of  you,'  she  said 

quickly.  *  I  want  to  forget  you.  You  've  come  into  my  life  and 
hurt  and  spoiled  it.  I  think  I  hate  you  all.'  When  I  glanced 
back,  she  was  still  standing  in  the  doorway,  a  stiff,  tragic  figure. 
Do  you  remember  the  dancing  Columbine  at  the  Coliseum,  who 
died  on  Harlequin's  body  in  such  a  fantastic  travesty  of  despair? 
She  was  like  that." 

We  waited  two  months  for  a  letter  from  Mick.  It  came  at 
last  from  a  little  village  in  the  south-eastern  part  of  San  Miguel 
in  the  Azores. 

He  had  fared  worse  than  our  worst  fears.  The  captain  of  the 
sailing  ship  was  a  nervous,  jumpy  Swede,  with  a  horror  of  the 
open  sea.  They  dodged  down  the  coast  of  Europe,  and  Mick  was 
fearfully  sick.  The  mate  had  taken  a  dislike  to  him,  and  they 
were  hardly  out  of  the  river  when  he  landed  Mick  a  kick  on  the 
ankle.  Mick  hobbled  round  in  a  half -crippled  state  for  a  couple 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  119 

of  days  and  then  his  leg  was  so  painful  that  he  complained.  The 
mate  declared  him  to  be  a  dirty  malingerer,  and  forced  him  to  go 
on  working.  He  could  not  eat  the  food  and  he  was  half-dazed 
with  pain.  At  last,  when  they  were  off  St.  Vincent,  he  was  so 
clearly  ill,  and  his  ankle  looked  so  ugly,  that  they  debated  whether 
to  leave  him.  I  daresay  the  mate  was  a  little  scared.  The  men 
were  grumbling  at  the  way  he  had  treated  Mick. 

"A  hefty  brute,  the  only  other  Englishman  of  the  crew  —  the 
rest  were  Swedes  and  Danes,  and  damn  bad  sailors  they  are  — 
took  a  liking  to  me  and  swore  to  get  him  into  trouble  if  I  died." 
And  then,  as  Mick  was  limping  about,  he  stumbled  over  the 
galley  step  and  broke  his  leg  just  above  the  inflamed  and  swollen 
ankle.  That  settled  it.  Perhaps  the  mate  reflected  that  if  Mick 
died  on  board  there  might  be  trouble.  Things  are  not  what  they 
were  in  the  autocratic  merchant  service:  the  times  are  rotten  with 
sentiment,  and  dead  men  have  to  be  accounted  for.  If  he  died 
in  hospital  there  would  be  an  end  to  it,  and  so  to  hospital  he 
went.  He  was  delirious,  and  remembered  very  vaguely  that  he 
changed  ships. 

**  Or  perhaps  it  was  only  the  ship's  boat,"  he  wrote.  "  But 
I  seem  to  recall  a  little  yellow-skinned  man  with  a  kindly  face, 
who  bent  over  me  and  poked  at  my  ankle.  He  chattered  in 
Spanish  or  Portuguese  over  his  shoulder  while  he  dressed  my 
leg.  Certainly  it  was  already  dressed  when  I  reached  the  hos- 
pital, and  lucky  for  me  it  was.  The  place  was  run  by  Portuguese 
monks  and  they  were  a  queer  crew.  They  never  washed  me  or 
changed  the  bed-clothes  or  looked  at  my  leg,  the  whole  month 
I  was  there.  A  full  belly  maketh  a  kind  heart,  so  I  suppose 
they  were  kind  enough.  The  only  one  I  ever  saw  work  was  a  lean, 
sardonic-looking  son  of  God  who  came  round  twice  a  day  with 
bowls  of  broth  and  boiled  chicken.  He  used  to  sweep  the  room 
out  now  and  then  in  a  desultory  sort  of  way.  I  don't  know  what 
his  name  was.  I  christened  him  Pedro,  and  he  answered  to  it 
without  any  trouble.  When  I  'd  been  there  a  week,  he  began  to 
sit  on  my  bed  and  talk  to  me.  I  thought  he  was  an  Irishman  at 
first,  but  he  turned  out  to  be  a  Bavarian  who  'd  lived  in  a  North 
Irish  monastery  for  six  or  seven  years.  My  name  deceived  him 
into  thinking  I  came  from  that  distressin'  country.  He  led  off 


120  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

with  an  astonishing  attack  on  Irish  priests.  He  said  they  were 
an  intolerant  and  barbarous  lot.  He  had  seen  a  priest  whip  a 
woman  once,  and  he  kept  coming  back  to  it  over  and  over  again 
in  an  indignant  sort  of  way.  I  was  too  weak  to  care  much  what 
he  talked  about,  but  after  a  while  I  roused  up  enough  to  ask 
him  the  cause  of  the  chastisement.  His  indignation  bubbled  up 
at  once. 

"'For  what?  '  says  he.  'Why,  for  human  nature  and  nought 
else.  He  was  a  fool,  that  priest.  He  had  all  the  unmarried 
women  and  widows  joined  together  in  a  society  he  called  Daugh- 
ters of  Mary.  And  he  would  have  all  the  bachelors  to  be  Sons  of 
John.  The  young  men  held  off,  but  some  of  the  older  ones  came 
in  for  what  they  could  get.  This  woman  I  speak  of  was  a  widow. 
Her  husband  was  dead,  and  she  a  fine,  upstanding  woman  in  her 
prime,  with  never  a  wrinkle  on  her.  There  were  two  cottages 
she  had,  side  by  side,  and  one  she  let  to  a  Son  of  John.  What 
would  you  expect?  '  He  shrugged  himself  in  an  ungainly  way. 
'  There  was  a  fine  to-do  when  it  all  came  out,  and  down  goes  the 
priest  and  whips  the  woman  in  her  own  garden,  and  puts  a  ban 
on  them  both.  Of  course,  he  took  it  off,  but  what  good  can 
come  of  stupidity  like  that?  Bah,  I  spit  upon  all  such.' 

"  And  there  's  a  pretty  tale  for  you.  I  don't  see  that  it  has  any 
relation  to  Home  Rule,  but  you  might  put  it  to  a  suitable  Orange- 
man if  you  can  find  one. 

"He  was  a  queer  customer,  that  Bavarian  monk.  A  mixture 
of  knave  and  Simple  Simon.  You  could  never  be  sure  which 
predominated.  A  huge  Catalan  monk  called  Daniela  seemed 
to  be  the  ruling  power  in  the  hospital.  He  extended  his  powers 
over  the  village,  and  acted  as  an  unofficial  judge  in  local  disputes. 
They  brought  him  one  day  a  man  —  one  Galdos  —  caught  steal- 
ing fowls.  It  was  a  clear  case:  he'd  been  at  it  for  months,  and 
the  peasants  clamored  for  his  blood.  Old  Daniela  blazed  and 
blasted  at  the  thief,  and  soothed  the  peasants  with  promises 
of  an  awful  vengeance.  The  thief  was  an  engaging-looking  scoun- 
drel, and  I  felt  sorry  for  him.  '  What  will  Father  Daniela  do?  ' 
I  asked  Pedro. 

"  He  looked  at  me  slyly.     *  Oh,  nothing,'  he  said.     *  He  dare  n't. 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  121 

He  's  fathered  too  many  of  the  rascal's  children.  Galdos  has  a 
rare  wife  —  as  dark  as  a  gipsy,  and  holds  up  her  head  like  a 
young  mare.  Father  Daniela  will  keep  him  working  here  for  a 
month  and  then  let  him  out  to  run  till  he  's  caught  again.' 

"'The  old  villain!  '  I  said. 

'  That   one?     He  cannot  help   himself:   his  mother  was   a 
thief,  and  his  father  a  liar  and  a  heretic.' 

; '  I  don't  mean  Galdos,'  I  said.     '  It 's  Daniela  I  'm  talking 
about.' 

"Pedro  revolted.  'A  villain?  '  he  cried.  'You  are  mad  to 
say  it.  He  is  a  good  and  generous  man.  He  would  give  of 
his  last  crust  to  the  needy.  Moreover,  he  never  asks  favors  of 
a  woman.  But  he  is  of  a  pleasing  figure.  Women  like  a  fat 
man.  Fat  men  are  comfortable  and  easy  in  their  habits.  A  thin 
lover  is  passionate  and  too  ready  with  his  fingers  at  your  throat.' 
Complacently  — '  I  was  a  passionate  man  myself  in  my  youth.' 

"  Pedro  told  me  that  in  a  village  another  mile  or  so  inland  lived 
an  English  clergyman  and  his  wife.  The  wife,  he  said,  was  —  so 
—  and  flung  open  his  arms  to  express  an  incredible  elongation. 
'The  man  pokes  with  his  nose  at  you,  and  says  —  Ah.'  Pedro 
twisted  his  face  into  a  donnish  solemnity.  '  But  perhaps  they 
would  assist  you  to  communicate  with  your  friends,'  he  finished 
delicately. 

"  I  recited  to  Pedro  the  full  tale  of  my  accomplishments,  and 
sent  him  to  interview  the  English  heretic.  He  promised  Pedro 
to  call,  and  did  —  the  next  day.  I  believe  he  thought  I  was  at 
my  last  gasp,  for  he  had,  wrapped  in  a  piece  of  brown  paper, 
a  surplice  or  a  cassock,  or  whatever  the  devil  it  is  they  don  to 
speed  the  souls  of  the  departing.  When  he  found  me  propped 
up  in  bed,  digging  in  at  a  Portuguese  grammar  that  old  Pedro 
had  discovered  for  me,  he  looked  horribly  taken  aback  and 
disappointed.  He  tried  to  conceal  the  cassock,  but  it  was  burst- 
ing out  of  the  paper  in  all  directions.  He  kept  poking  at  it, 
and  sitting  on  it,  and  tucking  it  under  his  arm,  and  dropping 
it  on  the  floor  and  scrambling  for  it  until  I  was  dizzy.  He  en- 
tered upon  a  long  account  of  his  trials  in  a  heathen  land.  I  was 
so  bored  that  I  pretended  to  wander  in  my  mind  to  get  rid  of  him. 


122  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

'  The  elephant  has  drunk  all  the  milk,'  says  I,  and  rolls  my  eyes 
at  him.  It  came  out  of  the  Portuguese  grammar,  but  he  didn't 
know  that. 

"  *  My  poor  boy,'  he  says,  '  I  '11  send  for  you.  You  must  be 
got  away,'  and  off  he  hurries  like  a  twig  in  the  wind.  I  did  n't 
believe  he  'd  do  anything,  but  sure  enough,  a  couple  of  days 
later  he  and  his  wife  turned  up  at  the  hospital  and  haled  me  off 
in  a  horrible  cart.  Pedro  stood  mournfully  in  the  doorway, 
watching  me  out  of  sight.  He  was  a  good  man,  was  Pedro,  and 
extraordinarily  conscientious,  considering  the  climate  .  .  . 

"  That  grammar  was  some  book,  I  tell  you.  The  first  sentence 
in  it  ran  — '  We  have  the  oranges,  but  the  foreigners  have  all 
the  watches,'  which  I  take  to  be  a  horrid  aspersion  on  the  char- 
acter of  English  fruit-merchants  .  .  . 

"  Well,  here  I  am,  in  a  white-walled,  picturesque  house  of  in- 
credible inconvenience.  I  fight  a  losing  battle  with  hordes  of 
spiders  and  sleep  with  my  head  under  the  sheet  for  fear  one 
should  drop  on  me  from  the  ceiling. 

"  I  can't  quite  make  out  what  the  Holts  are  doing  in  this  God- 
forsaken village.  They  had  a  vicarage  near  Cardiff.  I  believe 
—  I  may  be  doing  her  an  awful  injustice  —  that  Mrs.  Holt  is  the 
reason.  She  looks  like  a  reformed  kleptomaniac,  and  he  adopts 
a  queer,  watchful  attitude  to  her,  which  may,  however,  be  part  of 
the  usual  domestic  amenities  of  an  Anglican  household. 

"  The  ostensible  reason  for  their  exile  is  Mr.  Holt's  great  work. 
He  is  writing  a  book  which  shall  once  and  for  all  settle  the  Arian 
question.  The  house  is  crowded  with  the  Old  Fathers;  they 
fall  on  your  head  off  shelves,  lurk  about  in  boot  cupboards,  trip 
you  up  round  corners,  and  even  find  their  way  into  the  kitchen, 
where  the  little  Portuguese  wench  uses  'em  as  hassocks  and 
pastryboards.  A  lovely  4ittle  thing,  and  Mrs.  H.  tracks  me 
round  like  a  bloodhound  when  she  is  anywhere  near.  A  blood- 
hound in  creaking  corsets  and  bodices  that  hook  up  behind.  Old 
Holt  must  spend  half-an-hour  on  them  every  morning.  Oh,  voice 
that  breathed  o  'er  Eden,  what  Adam  escaped!  Oh,  sacred  wed- 
ded bliss!  Their  bedroom  is  next  to  mine  and  as  the  walls 
are  made  of  thin  wood,  I  have  to  listen  to  their  nocturnal  com- 
munings.  Last  night,  old  Holt  began — 'My  dear,  it  is  abom- 


IRRESPONSIBILITY  123 

inably  close.     I  think  I  must  really  have  a  bed  put  in  the  spare 
room.' 

'  That  would  be  unnatural.  My  dear  parents  never  slept 
one  night  apart,  except  in  illness,  during  their  whole  married 
life.  They  were  married  fifty-five  years.' 

"  Unnatural !  how  sweetly  natural  that  four  withered  limbs 
should  be  compelled  to  lie  side  by  side  in  comfort  and  discomfort, 
year  in  and  year  out,  until  death  releases  'em.  My  mind  balks 
at  the  vision  .  .  . 

"  I  am  supposed  to  be  acting  as  secretary  to  the  old  boy,  and  to 
tell  you  the  truth,  I  earn  my  board.  The  thing  is  hopeless,  of 
course;  Tout  I  'm  doing  quite  invaluable  work  in  sorting  out  notes 
and  looking  up  authorities.  I  shall  hereafter  quote  the  Fathers 
with  the  Devil  himself  .  .  . 

"  He  's  a  courageous  old  stick,  you  know,  is  Holt.  Here  he  is, 
slaving  away  in  a  land  he  detests,  for  a  Church  that  will  never 
see  or  thank  him  for  his  service,  preserving  his  English  identity 
by  talking  a  wretched  dog-Portuguese  and  eating  meat  on  Fri- 
days —  always  brushed  and  active  in  a  country  that  positively 
clamors  for  indolence  and  shirt-sleeves  .  .  ." 

There  followed  vague  plans  for  his  future.  "  When  I  Ve 
limped  myself  back  to  health,"  he  wrote,  "  I  '11  get  down  to 
Ponta  Delgado  and  set  off  again  for  South  America  and  the 
unknown.  *  I  'd  like  to  roll  to  Rio  —  roll  really  down  to  Rio  — 
Some  day  before  I  die '  .  .  . 

"There's  a  British  Consul  in  the  offing,  of  course,  but  I'd 
rather  not,  if  I  can  manage  any  other  way  .  .  . 

"  I  suppose  you  've  seen  and  heard  nothing  of  Olive?  " 

After  "  Your  affectionate  brother,  Mick,"  was  a  sentence  writ- 
ten jerkily  across  a  corner  — "  I  shall  be  very  lame  for  the  rest 
of  my  life,  you  know." 

We  looked  at  each  other,  and  found  nothing  to  say. 

I  took  the  letter  to  Sanday.  He  read  it  through  with  a  peering 
earnestness  and  handed  it  back  without  a  word.  For  a  few 
minutes  he  stared  out  of  the  high  window  of  the  lab.  at  high 
peaks  of  clouds  in  a  blue  sky.  Then  he  came  back  to  the  bench 
and  stood  there,  picking  up  weights  between  the  pincers  and 
dropping  them  about  a  sheet  of  paper. 


124  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

"  Is  he  really  lamed,  do  you  think?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  says  so,"  I  answered.  "  I  suppose  he  knows  what  he 's 
saying." 

"Strange,"  Sanday  murmured,  "he  was  so  active.  But  what 
shall  it  profit  a  man  if  he  gain  the  whole  world  and  lose  his 
soul?" 

I  did  not  get  his  association  of  ideas.  I  folded  up  the  letter 
and  prepared  to  go.  He  snatched  at  my  sleeve.  "  You  must  n't 
hurry  away  like  that.  We  must  think  what  to  do." 

He  sought  vaguely  in  his  pockets.  "  I  had  a  letter,"  he  said, 
"  an  important  letter."  He  discovered  it  at  last,  so  scrawled 
over  with  figures  that  he  had  to  read  it  with  one  finger  tracing 
along  the  lines. 

**  I  wrote  to  my  friend  in  India,  after  you  had  been  to  see  me 
in  Gower  Street.  I  had  an  idea  it  would  be  necessary."  He 
peered  at  me  round  the  corner  of  his  glasses.  "  He  replied  that 
he  did  not  need  any  more  assistants,  but  would  recommend  the 
young  man  to  the  Agricultural  Experiment  Station  in  Barbados. 
I  think  that 's  enough." 

He  darted  at  the  door  with  an  amazing  activity.  "We  must 
cable  —  write — ."  I  heard  him  pattering  along  the  corridor, 
talking  over  his  shoulder  as  he  went. 


BOOK  II 
THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME 


CHAPTER  I 

MICHAEL  left  England  in  the  last  month  of  1911.  The  days 
after  he  went  were  extraordinarily  empty.  Life  was  nar- 
rower, and  in  some  way  poorer  and  thinner.  My  own  restlessness 
grew:  I  began  to  make  secret  plans  for  getting  out  of  England. 
I  wondered  if  Sanday  could  help  me.  A  man  I  knew  well  at 
King's"  was  going  to  Mexico  on  some  doubtful  errand  to  do  with 
oil  concessions.  He  said  himself  that  he  was  engaged  as  a 
head-hunter.  "  You  'd  better  come  with  me,  Hearne,"  he  added. 
"  Climate  along  the  coast  like  an  afternoon  in  heaven.  Girls, 
real  girls,  not  washed-out  color  prints.  Adventure,  romance  up- 
to-date.  Make  your  know  you  're  alive.  Not  like  this."  He 
waved  a  contemptuous  hand  at  the  somber,  hurrying  crowds. 

Many  times  after  he  had  gone,  I  wished  I  had  taken  the  jesting 
offer.  I  talked  to  Margaret,  boasted  of  the  things  I  would  do 
when  I  had  got  me  away  from  a  worked-out  country.  Afterwards, 
I  sat  and  wondered  at  the  incredible  things  I  had  said. 

We  went  our  way  through  the  year  of  1912,  busied  with  many 
things.  We  were  in  the  midst  of  activities  that  bore  no  visible 
fruit  until  the  very  early  days  of  the  next  year.  We  met  people: 
we  made  and  re-made  our  plans.  I  feel  that  we  were  trying  to 
blow  life  into  things  that  were  never  alive  at  all.  To  be  sure,  we 
had,  during  this  time,  every  appearance  of  life  and  liveliness. 
We  ran  about  after  people,  and  worked  like  slaves.  We  blew 
ourselves  a  great  bladder  of  enthusiasm  and  mounted  on  it  with 
perilous  buoyancy. 

The  Scheme  was  born  in  Herne  Hill.  It  was  we  who  sug- 
gested it,  and  we  who  toiled  like  madmen  to  keep  it  going.  And 
yet,  from  the  very  first,  we  had  less  pleasure  and  less  faith  in  it 
than  any  of  those  who  came  round  to  help  us.  It  is  not  that  I 
think  it  was  wrong,  either  in  its  intentions  or  in  its  effects.  It 
taught  us  not  a  little,  and  knocked  the  more  obvious  conceit  out 
of  us.  It  worked  well.  It  was  appreciated.  But  it  was  wrong 

127 


128  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

for  us.  We  should  have  left  it  to  others.  When  I  can  take  up 
again  the  work  we  dropped,  I  shall  take  it  up  altogether  dif- 
ferently. 

When  we  came  to  London  we  found  socialism  grimed  and 
harassed  from  its  toiling  life  in  factories  and  workshops.  It 
wore  an  air  of  bristling  efficiency.  It  was  up-to-date  of  the 
latest  cog-wheel  in  the  industrial  machine.  All  that  the  older 
socialism  lacked  it  had.  It  had  technical  knowledge  and  the 
sense  of  economic  proportion.  And  yet  we  missed  in  it  something 
vital,  something  that  we  stumbled  on  in  other  places  and  hailed 
with  gladness:  in  a  poem  by  Morris,  in  the  untroubled  thunders 
of  an  old  Social  Democrat,  in  odd,  unconscious  illuminations  of 
minds,  still  unconverted  to  the  one  true  and  dried-up  faith. 
From  the  first  we  felt  ourselves  awkward  and  alien  in  its  whirring 
activities.  We  had  to  struggle  against  a  numb,  glowering  stu- 
pidity that  settled  down  on  our  minds  in  the  presence  of  one 
of  those  gleamingly  efficient  young  socialists  from  Oxford,  shrewd, 
skilled  experts,  emitting  sparks  of  commonsense  at  every  pore. 
We  tried  angrily  to  drag  him  into  contradictions,  but  he  rode 
delicately  and  surely  over  our  massed  irrelevancies  and  left  us 
unsatisfied  behind. 

We  wrestled  with  our  dissatisfaction.     We  read  enormously 

in  the  latest  pamphlets,  and  began  to  exude  technicalities  with 

vigor.     And   the  sense  of  something  lacking  grew  with   equal 

vigor.     I  could  not  understand  it.    A  curious  piece  of  mental 

•*  trickery  enlightened  me. 

One  bitter  cold  day  I  let  the  fire  in  our  room  go  out.  With 
a  pile  of  reviews  and  a  handful  of  damp  sticks,  grudgingly  sup- 
plied from  the  kitchen,  I  tried  to  get  that  fire  going  before  the 
others  came  in.  The  more  expensive  a  paper,  the  less  is  it  likely 
to  set  a  brook  on  fire.  The  sticks  spit  and  gurgled  and  would 
not  catch.  In  desperation  I  seized  the  great  bunch  of  heather 
we  had  brought  from  home  to  remind  us  that  in  Herne  Hill  we 
dwelt  five  haughty  exiles.  It  was  bone  dry  and  the  flames  leaped 
through  it.  I  squatted  down  before  the  blaze  with  one  of  those 
clear  and  irritating  pamphlets.  The  blue  smoke  of  the  burning 
heather  filled  the  room  with  a  pungent,  acrid  smell.  In  the 
blinking  of  an  eyelid  I  was  in  the  farm  kitchen.  The  wooden 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  129 

settle  ran  from  fireplace  to  door.  The  tall  clock  droned  and 
wheezed  behind  it.  On  the  flagstones  of  the  hearth  the  peat 
glowed,  smoldering.  It  murmured  of  brcvwn  streams  trickling 
through  the  heather,  of  the  close  leaves  of  the  ling,  soft  green 
lace  of  moss,  the  treacherous  greedy  butterwort,  and  the  tall  harsh 
belfries  of  the  foxgloves  in  the  disused  quarry. 

That  conclusive  beast  of  a  little  book  was  still  in  my  hand. 
Impulsively,  I  flung  it  on  the  fire  and  the  flames  hissed  and 
mocked.  The  ashes  swept  up  the  stone  chimney  and  the  moor 
wind  blew  them  down  the  road  the  Romans  made.  With  a  clatter 
of  sticks  and  tongues  the  others  came  along  the  passage,  opening 
the  deoT  right  through  the  phantom  settle.  "  Who  's  burning 
peat,  who 's  burning  peat?  "  they  cried.  "  The  beast,  he  's 
burned  the  heather." 

Rather  bruised  and  sore  in  body,  I  reflected  later  on  my  im- 
pulsive contempt.  I  had  burned  that  excellent  and  informative 
treatise  because  it  was  utterly  out  of  place  in  the  farm  kitchen. 
Suppose  Luke  Pearson  of  Moor  Acres  had  come  in  and  picked 
it  up,  or  John  Wardle  of  Wardle's  Close,  how  they  would  have 
spat  their  contempt!  I  would  no  more  dare  produce  in  a  com- 
pany of  northern  dalesmen  those  glib  and  reputable  theories,  the 
economic  currency  of  the  town,  than  I  dare  walk  down  the 
Strand  in  the  leathern  breeches  that  were  my  father's  and  then 
mine  and  Michael's  and  last  of  all  Oliver's,  before  they  came,  at 
the  auction,  on  evil  days  and  alien  legs  wherein  raced  no  drop 
of  the  dark  Hearne  blood.  Indeed,  I  would  sooner  outrage  the 
Strand:  the  folk  there  are  kinder  and  more  tolerant  than  the 
dalesfolk. 

That  second  of  insight  taught  me  many  things.  It  taught  me 
that  socialism,  which  had  made  more  play  with  the  land  than 
has  any  other  economic  creed,  knows  least  about  it.  Between 
the  well-meaning,  well-informed  industrialist  and  the  bulwarked 
stolidity  of  Luke  Pearson  and  his  nine  great  sons,  is  a  gulf  never 
to  be  bridged  by  exhortations  and  common  sense. 

Their  days,  rooted  in  ancient  prejudice,  are  spent  pitting  a 
stark  courage  against  the  treachery  of  the  moor  that  creeps  to 
the  edges  of  their  fields,  biding  its  time  to  take  them  back.  To 
the  tide  that  sweeps  out  from  the  towns  and  the  cities  they  will 


130  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

oppose  the  wall  of  their  blind  hatred  of  alien  things.  The  harsh- 
ness and  the  cruel  strength  of  the  upland  dales  is  in  that  hatred. 
They  are  not  stupid,  the  dalesmen,  nor  even  uneducated.  Many 
a  one,  like  young  Nathaniel  Pearson,  reads  through  the  winter 
evenings  when  the  animals  are  settled  for  the  night.  The  winter 
I  lived  at  Moor  Acres  he  read  patiently  through  "  The  Decline 
and  Fall  -of  the  Roman  Empire."  At  the  end  of  it  he  judged 
slowly. 

"  They  were  a  good  folk,"  said  he,  "  but  bloody  minded  and 
ower-hasty,  and  they  had  nobbut  a  poor  sense  o'  justice." 

"  No  sense  of  justice?  "  cried  I.     "  What  about  Roman  Law?  " 

"  Now  did  I  say  -aught  o'  law  ?  "  he  retorted. 

His  father  was  given  to  like  sweeping  judgments  on  men 
and  things.  He  had  heard  of  socialism  and  did  actually  believe 
in  the  existence  of  honest  socialists.  But  he  argued  that  their 
honesty  was  due  to  lack  of  guts:  the  clever  ones  were  all  born 
scoundrels.  By  a  queer  chance,  he  had  been  in  Paris  during  the 
Commune.  When  young  Boulby  got  himself  shut  up  there  dur- 
ing the  siege,  his  father  the  Squire  could  find  no  braver  or  wiser 
man  to  send  for  news  of  him  than  young  Luke  Pearson.  A  lad  of 
twenty,  who  had  never  been  out  of  his  native  dales,  he  got  himself 
across  the  Channel  and  somehow  into  the  city  just  before  the  start 
of  the  Commune.  He  found  young  Boulby,  and  kept  that  hare- 
brained youth  from  rushing  headlong  into  revolution. 

His  opinion  of  the  Communist  leaders  was  almost  kindly. 
"They  meant  well,"  he  said,  "but  they  were  nobbut  daft  oils. 
Should  'a'  done  it  thoroughly  or  let  it  be.  Revolution  bean't 
noa  time  for  honesty:  the  daft  gowks  should  ha'  known  that. 
Them  others  knawed  it:  reel  well  they  knawed  it.  They  dealt 
sorely  wi'  them  honest  fools.  The  streets  were  fair  wet  wi' 
revolutionist  blood.  Sick  at  heart  I  wor  for  the  bairns  they 
took  an'  shot  for  being  communists.  There  bea  n't  noa  honest 
socialism.  'T  is  all  folly  and  self-seeking.  I  doan't  say  but  that 
some  on  'em  means  well,  reel  well,  but  they  knaw  namore  o'  life 
than  yon  owd  bitch.  Ha'  na  truck  wi'  such.  'T  is  a  mock  and  a 
delusion." 

His  hearers  said  "Ay"  in  their  throats,  and  stretching  huge 
arms,  stamped  slowly  with  great  feet. 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  131 

When  you  talk  of  the  land  -and  say  what  you  will  do  with  it, 
do  you  never  think  that  the  land  has  also  two  stout  legs,  two 
great  arms,  body  like  a  tree  trunk,  and  a  mind  rooted  with 
Ygdrasil  in  the  old  earth?  Legs  and  arms  and  body  and  mind 
that  loathe  and  scorn  your  city  faith,  will  have  none  of  it, 
will  spit  on  it,  and  oppose  it  with  the  strength  of  an  earth-fast 
prejudice? 

I  know  that  this  is  so  because  I  have  felt  in  myself  the  painful 
tug  of  old  instinctive  hatreds.  I  have  sat  in  the  back  of  your  halls 
and  meeting-places,  listening  to  the  disciplined  phrases  of  the 
modern  socialist  creed,  and  felt  suddenly  that  had  I  the  barns 
and  farms  of  my  fathers  I  would  burn  them  to  the  last  door-post 
before  I  would  be  torn  from  my  fierce  and  self-ordered  isolation. 
Were  I  Luke  Pearson  and  had  got  me  with  such  fearful  effort  a 
living  from  the  grudging  soil,  would  I  not  fight  to  the  end  against 
the  new  alien  obedience  demanded  of  me  in  a  wise  and  socialist 
State? 

Civilization  is  a  failure,  not  because  it  is  cruel  or  bloody,  but 
because  it  has  so  ordered  things  that  some  men  are  cut  off  from 
the  land  all  their  lives,  and  others  are  rooted  in  it  so  fiercely 
that  nothing  else  for  them  has  meaning  or  value  or  any  life  at 
all.  It  is  wrong  that  there  should  be  a  man  living  who  does  not 
somewhere  touch  the  soil.  It  is  wrong  and  wicked  beyond  belief 
that  a  child  should  be  born  and  bred  out  of  sight  of  the  meadow 
grass  and  sound  of  the  homing  birds. 

Men  must  work  in  towns,  but  their  homes  should  be  decently 
spread  through  the  countryside.  Before  God,  I  swear  this  has 
nothing  to  do  with  garden  suburbs,  those  middle-class  travesties 
of  the  Manor  and  the  Hall. 

No  man  should  have  to  live  in  cities,  save  from  choice,  and 
none  all  his  life  round. 

During  the  whole  of  the  time  we  worked  with  the  socialists 
of  London,  we  never  met  one  who  understood  us  when  we  told 
them  of  the  immovable  forces  of  the  earth  that  they  would  surely 
have  to  face.  They  laughed  and  shrugged.  A  little  earnest 
propaganda,  a  judicious  pointing  of  the  moral,  would  bring  the 
dalesfolk  into  line  with  the  workers  of  the  busy  outside  world. 
So  they  said,  and  so  believed. 


132  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

We  knew  them  wrong.  Because  they  had  not  in  them  the  mur- 
muring of  a  voice  deep  with  the  sound  of  many  streams  and  the 
memory  of  many  men,  should  we  be  deaf  to  it  who  heard  it  in 
ourselves? 

We  were  conscious  always  of  our  difference  from  the  men  who 
were  our  friends  and  fellow-workers.  Even  Mick's  freakishness 
was  based  on  something  hard  and  stolid,  and  slow  to  move  as  the 
hills  themselves.  Our  life  had  been  different,  bearing  a  heritage 
of  sorrow  lightly,  as  the  green  earth  bears  the  burden  of  many 
feet  .  .  . 

There  are  times  when  I  hate  the  very  thought  of  the  moorland. 
I  think  of  her  stretching  bony  arms  down  into  the  fertile  valleys, 
greedy  and  menacing,  taking  every  year  her  toll  of  human  life. 
And  then  I  see  her  in  her  ripe  loveliness,  decked  with  the  yellow 
gorse,  twisting  in  her  hair  the  red  clusters  of  the  mountain  ash. 
She  has  crooked  an  elbow  round  the  stark,  gray  rock  and  let  her 
fingers  rest  in  the  narrow  creeks  of  the  sea.  She  smiles  tenderly 
and  proudly,  dreaming  of  her  triumph  and  her  sorrow. 

But  in  winter  the  wind  tears  through  the  black  heavens,  and 
the  hollows  are  filled  with  dark,  bitter  water.  Then  a  man 
crossing  the  moor  reels  on  the  flinty  path,  and  the  walls  of  the 
cottage  quiver  and  strain  in  the  storm.  The  wet  peat  burns 
slowly,  and  the  wind  rushes  under  the  door,  lifting  the  carpet  in 
little  billows  across  the  floor.  A  man  must  have  good  thoughts 
who  would  live  alone  on  the  moors. 

I  belong  to  the  moor.  It  is  because  I  know  that,  and  knew  it 
all  along,  that  I  was  uneasy  and  ill-contented  in  the  work  we  be- 
gan in  London.  I  shall  go  back  to  my  own  place  and  begin 
afresh. 


CHAPTER  II 

HOW  am  I  to  write  the  story  of  these  years?     No  sooner  do  I 
get  me  in  the  way  of  an  orderly  account  than  my  mind 

thrusts  out  odd  scenes  to  trip  me  up  and  call  me  halt.  Am  I  to 
ignore  them  for  the  order's  sake?  And  if  I  do,  shall  I  have 
robbed  my  tale  of  half  its  sense  and  savor? 

I  do  not  know  why  I,  sitting  in  the  sun  on  the  dried  pine  needles, 
should  remember  all  at  once  an  obscure,  ill-lit  cafe,  and  myself 
at  a  corner  table,  bending  across  to  Margaret's  sweet  face.  It  is 
not  one  of  the  cafes  we  frequented,  and  I  do  not  know  what  we 
are  doing  there.  Before  I  have  time  to  consider,  another  memory 
has  elbowed  that  one  out  of  the  way. 

We  are  making  one  of  our  rare  intrusions  upon  Olympus. 
The  Duke  is  in  town.  Margaret  and  I  and  his  son  have  lunched 
with  him  in  Soho. 

"  It 's  twelve  o'clock,"  he  said.  "  At  two  we  lunch  again. 
We  '11  all  go  to  see  Jane.  Jack,  you  neglect  your  Aunt  Jane. 
You  should  n't  do  it,  my  boy.  She  '11  be  useful  to  you  one  of 
these  days.  A  determined  woman,  and  as  unlike  your  mother, 
sweet  saint,  as  a  sister  could  be.  Jane  reverts  to  type,  I  think. 
Her  father  stuck  pigs  in  Chicago,  and  I  '11  be  bound  it  was  a  de- 
center  sight  than  one  I  saw  in  India.  All  drugged  to  a  pig,  my 
boy,  and  his  lordship  shot  'em  in  droves.  It  was  a  Gadarene 
massacre." 

We  doubted  whether   Jane,  Lady  Cricklewood,  expected  us. 

The  Duke  stared.  "  What 's  that  to  do  with  it?  "  he  demanded. 
"Ain't  I  taking  you?  My  dear,"  he  said  to  Margaret,  with  a 
sorry  echo  of  the  gallantry  that  had  shadowed  his  sweet  saint's 
life,  "  she  should  be  honored  to  have  you  at  her  table." 

We  did,  indeed,  pass  almost  unnoticed.  Lady  Cricklewood 
kissed  Jack  on  the  forehead,  and  smiled  very  kindly  on  us.  She 
might  have  been  relieved  that  we  were  no  worse.  Jack  told 
me  that  his  father  took  the  queerest  people  to  lunch  with  Jane. 

133 


134  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

Once  it  was  a  large  shabby  journalist  who  roared  all  through  the 
meal  in  a  deafening  voice.  The  ends  of  his  mustache  dragged 
in  the  coffee,  and  he  wiped  them  on  his  tie.  He  could  not  use  his 
napkin  because  he  had  thrown  it  away. 

Almost  always,  the  people  whom  the  Duke  brought  regarded 
the  rest  of  Jane's  guests  with  an  aggressive  contempt.  She  re- 
belled at  last,  and  told  him  that  he  must  come  alone  or  not  at  all. 

He  answered  her  solemnly.  "  My  good  Jane,  if  you  cannot 
see  fit  to  bestow  your  hospitality  upon  me  and  my  friends,  I  shall 
go  on  the  stage  and  have  my  own  and  my  wife's  family  history 
in  all  the  papers." 

Jane  quivered  and  collapsed:  the  Chicago  pigs  were  the  least 
of  her  ancestral  shortcomings,  and  she  dwelt  precariously  in 
places  still  unravished  by  mixed  breeding. 

The  lunchers  that  day  were  austerely  varied.  His  aunt,  Jack 
said,  was  secretly  bored  by  her  pure-bred  relatives.  She  tried 
to  escape  from  them  by  developing  a  mind.  This  she  did  in  the 
two  most  reputable  directions  —  the  high  political  and  the  dis- 
tinguished literary. 

"  There  they  are,  all  three  together,"  Jack  said.  "  That  horse- 
faced  frump  is  my  aunt's  sister-in-law.  Inbreeding  produced 
that  nose.  The  dreamy-eyed  haberdasher  on  her  left  is  Bloomer, 
the  new  sociological  novelist.  Out- Wells  Wells,  you  know.  The 
other  side  of  him  is  political  —  wife  to  a  Cabinet  Minister,  I 
think." 

Lady  Cricklewood  directed  the  conversation  with  a  heavy  zeal. 
In  the  one  moment  that  it  slipped  her,  it  turned  on  divorce. 
There  may  have  been  a  Commission  sitting:  I  do  not  remember. 

Bloomer  turned  on  his  right-hand  neighbor  a  face  that  quivered 
with  intelligence.  "Something  should  be  done,"  he  urged. 
"Don't  you  think  so?  What  is  your  opinion?  How  do  you 
view  these  things?  " 

The  thin  lips  opened  for  a  trickle  of  icy  sound.  "Do  they 
require  thought?  It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  nothing 
but  an  instinct  for  what  is  base  could  explain  this  yearning 
for  license  that  has  come  upon  our  race.  I  have  always  blamed 
America.  But  do  you  suppose  that  the  infection  could  have 
so  spread  if  we  had  not  been  maliciously,  insidiously  weakened 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  135 

by^  unbalanced  minds  and  a  foolish  sentimental  government?  " 

"  You  mean,  dear  lady ?  "  the  novelist  murmured. 

"I^mean  this  pandering  to  the  mob.     Giving  them  to  read. 

They  're  not  fit  for  it.     Ideas  get  into  their  heads  and  they  can't 

judge  of  them.     The  lower  classes  are  drunken  with  the  license 

we  have  allowed  them.     Oh,  I  know  it  is  usual  to  flatter  them. 

There  is  not  a  journal  that  dares  tell  them  to  their  face  that 

they  are  narrow,  servile  fools." 

"But,"  ventured  the  Minister's  wife,  "hasn't  it  caused  great 

hardships  among  the  poorer  people  —  the  difficulty  of  divorce, 

I  mean?  " 

"Suppose  your  wife  is  in  the  lunatic  asylum,"  the  Duke 
grunted. 

He  got  no  further,  for  Lady  Cricklewood's  voice  rose  and  set- 
tled down  upon  him  like  a  clumsy  bird. 

"Pray,  my  dear  John,"  she  gurgled,  "don't  inflict  upon  us 
one  of  your  heroic  outbursts.  We  know  just  what  you  are  going 
to  say,  and  just  what  value  to  place  upon  it.  In  the  first  pace, 
these  creatures'  sense  of  decency  is  in  a  quite  elementary  stage, 
and  requires  less,  not  more  indulgence.  And  in  the  second 
place,  you  exaggerate  the  hardships." 

Her  sister-in-law  interrupted.  "  There  is  nothing  to  be  said 
upon  the  subject.  The  best  spiritual  advice  is  quite  clear  that  no 
possible  circumstance  can  justify  the  sin  of  re-marriage.  Say 
adultery,  rather.  Trials  are  for  purification:  the  harder  and 
more  bitter  our  suffering,  the  greater  will  be  our  reward.  Lust 
may  be  legalized.  It  cannot  be  sanctified."  A  mottled  flush 
spread  over  her  face. 

The  novelist  intervened,  and  Lady  Cricklewood  boomed  her 
way  placidly  through  the  rest  of  the  meal.  There  was  only  one 
break,  when  the  Cabinet  Minister's  wife  took  courage  to  wonder 
why  the  people  shoujd  not  reach  a  point  where  they  would  be  fit 
to  rule  themselves. 

"Why  should  we  rule  them?  "  she  said,  with  a  pretty,  flushed 
insistence.  She  opened  her  eyes  very  wide  and  fixed  them  on 
Bloomer.  He  blinked,  and  tripped  across  the  ice  on  agile  toe. 

*'  I  must  nail  you  for  my  next  book.  You  shall  be  my  aristo- 
cratic heroine,  sweet  and  bold-minded,  and  full  of  illuminating 


136  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

remarks  on  the  social  chaos."  This  is  not  what  he  said.  I  think 
it  is  what  he  thought. 

"My  dear,"  Jane  said  kindly,  "there  is  no  earthly  reason 
why  they  should  n't  rule  themselves  and  us,  but  they  've  got  to  be 
bred  to  it.  And  is  it  likely  we  shall  hasten  to  breed  our 
masters?  " 

Bloomer  had  a  moment.  "  It  might  be  better  to  breed  them," 
he  said,  "  than  to  leave  them  to  chance." 

I  believe  we  were  unfortunate  in  our  Olympians.  They  cannot 
all  be  so  purblind,  so  obstinately,  magnificently  obsessed  by  their 
possessions.  Probably  Chamberlayn,  with  his  ideal  of  a  com- 
fortable, well-mannered,  and  docile  democracy  is  nearer  the  mod- 
ern spirit  of  them. 

Two  nights  later  Oliver  and  I  dined  at  the  Kensington  cottage. 
As  dinner  progressed,  the  Duke  began  to  get  excited  by  the 
quantity  of  wine  he  drank.  The  unpleasant  side  of  him  peered 
out.  He  joked  maliciously  with  the  old  cousin. 

"  Ah,  Mary,"  he  said,  "  I  suppose  I  shall  not  keep  you  much 
longer.  Some  fortunate  man  will  storm  the  virgin  fortress  and 
carry  you  off,  and  my  little  home  will  be  desolate." 

The  poor  thin  hand  shook,  and  a  flush  crept  into  the  wrinkled 
cheeks.  She  looked  pitifully  at  us. 

"  You  're  at  the  dangerous  age,  you  know,  my  dear." 

But  at  that,  she  lifted  her  withered  neck  in  its  yellow  lacee 
and  struck  like  a  feeble  serpent. 

"  I  am  no  older  than  you,  my  dear  John,  but  I  thank  God  I 
have  learned  a  little  to  respect  myself  and  my  fellow-men." 

When  she  had  gone,  he  grew  moody  and  irritable.  He  turned 
on  his  son  with  a  mulish  rage. 

"  Don't  contradict  me,"  he  cried.  "Am  I  your  father?  Then 
treat  me  as  such,  or  by  God,  I  '11  let  you  know  what  it  is  to  set 
yourself  up  against  me.  'Pon  my  word,  I  don't  know  what  boys 
are  coming  to.  In  my  day,  your  grandfather  would  have  had  me 
whipped  by  the  groom  if  I  'd  dared  as  much  as  lift  an  eyelid 
against  him." 

With  a  suddenness  that  startled  us,  he  was  transformed  into  a 
broken  old  man.  His  shoulders  drooped  against  the  high  straight 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  137 

chair,  and  in  the  light  of  the  candles  his  face  was  incredibly 
aged  and  woeful. 

"You  all  draw  away  from  me,"  he  said.  "Have  you  not  the 
right?  Who  respects  the  withered  mountebank?  Don't  1  sing 
for  my  supper  like  any  clown?  " 

This  was  horrible.     Jack  sat  miserably  staring  at  the  wall. 

"  Poor  Mary  and  I  are  the  same  rotting  branch,"  he  murmured. 
"And  I  have  grieved  and  offended  Mary.  I,  who  alone  knew 
what  she  has  suffered.  Was  n't  I  there  when  her  lover  was  mur- 
dered? " 

A  gleam  came  into  his  eyes,  and  he  smiled  round  the  table. 
"  Boys,"  he  said,  sitting  suddenly  upright,  "  there 's  a  tale  for 
you.  The  blood  runs  through  me  to  remember  it.  'T  is  a  paltry 
knock-kneed  crew  ye  are  by  the  side  of  your  fathers.  I  '11  not  tell 
ye  his  name,"  he  said  cunningly,  "  ye  know  it  too  well.  We  were 
friends,  but  the  brains  were  all  his.  He  would  ha'  been  Prime 
Minister  before  now,  I  tell  ye.  He  was  marked  out  for  it.  And 
then  the  fool  must  get  into  a  mess  with  a  harlot  on  the  other 
side.  Her  husband  called  him  out:  he  knew  he  'd  be  ruined, 
anyway,  for  they  had  it  all  laid  to  spread  the  tale  abroad.  He 
fired  into  the  air,  and  took  the  other  man's  bullet  clean  through 
his  lung.  He  was  to  have  married  Mary  the  following  week.  It 
was  me  took  the  news  to  her,  and  devil  a  word  did  she  say,  but 
within  the  year  she  'd  hounded  that  yellow-haired  baggage  to 
disgrace  and  poverty.  She  came  whining  to  Mary  for  mercy, 
and  Mary  had  her  shown  out  of  the  back  door."  He  lifted  his 
glass.  "  Come,  boys,"  he  roared,  "  drink  to  the  men  who  had 
red  blood  in  their  veins,  and  the  women  who  drove  it  mad. 
Drink,  I  tell  ye." 

After  a  while  he  began  to  dwell  with  an  unctuous  pleasure  on 
the  hypocrisy  of  well-known  men.  He  spoke  of  a  famous  So- 
cialist. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  why  he  's  incorruptible?  "  he  said.  "  Be- 
cause he  makes  his  money  out  of  sixth-rate  cafes.  He  has  shares 
in  them  all.  He  stands  and  talks  of  the  evils  of  the  streets,  with 
his  eyes  rolling  to  heaven  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  jingling 
the  money  he  makes  by  paying  girls  wages  that  drive  'em  to  the 


138  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

trade.  I  daresay  he  has  shares  in  Beer,  for  he's  a  rare  tem- 
perance man.  I  '11  write  an  article  beginning  — '  I  appeal  from 
Honest  sober  to  Honest  drunk  .  .  .' " 

We  roared  with  laughter.  We  never  knew  whether  the  tale 
were  true  or  not,  but  we  made  use  of  it  to  annoy  Kersent. 

He  wandered  off  among  the  incidents  of  his  youth,  lingering 
wistfully  over  the  more  indecent  of  them.  When  we  left,  he  was 
beginning  to  instruct  Chamberlayn,  with  much  emphatic  detail, 
in  the  methods  of  acquiring  a  rich  wife. 

We  walked  past  the  great,  shadowed  buildings  in  silence.  As 
we  stood  shivering  in  Trafalgar  Square,  Oliver  said  abruptly  — 
"  Do  you  suppose  we  shall  get  like  that  lecherous  old  beast?  " 

We  had  not  done  with  fathers.  When  we  got  home,  we  found 
Anthony  sitting  gloomily  over  a  letter  from  home.  He  handed 
it  to  us  without  a  word.  It  ran :  — 

"  MY  DEAR  SON, 

"I  was  very  much  surprised  to  receive  your  request  for 
money.  As  I  explained  to  you  when  you  took  the  scholarship 
for  college,  you  must  not  expect  help  from  me.  Your 
scholarship  allows  you,  when  all  your  fees  have  been  paid,  at 
least  twenty-five  shillings  a  week,  exclusive  of  the  many  weeks 
when  you  enjoy  the  shelter  of  my  roof  and  food  at  my  table. 
Purely  as  an  act  of  grace,  I  have  given  you  at  various  times 
during  the  past  three  years,  sums  that  amount  to  more  than 
eighteen  pounds.  When  you  began  your  college  course,  I  pre- 
dicted that  you  would  lose  all  sense  of  proportion  on  finding 
yourself  able  to  handle  and  dispose  of  money  without  guidance. 
It  grieves  me  to  see  my  fears  justified.  You  further  write 
that  upon  leaving  college,  you  expect  to  get  a  good  position 
as  lecturer  at  an  agricultural  college,  and  will  then  repay  me  the 
sums  you  have  borrowed  —  I  might  say,  acquired  from  me. 
Since  I  have  no  guarantee,  either  that  you  will  obtain  such  a 
post,  or  will  see  fit  to  remember  your  debts,  you  can  hardly  ex- 
pect that  I  shall  imitate  your  rashness  and  accede  to  your  de- 
mands, which  may  well  be  limitless.  When  will  you  learn  to 
cut  your  coat  according  to  your  cloth?  As  I  did  not,  however, 
wish  to  act  without  due  reflection,  I  carried  the  question  to  the 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  139 

Lord,  last  Sabbath  evening.  It  was  made  clear  to  me  that  I 
should  be  acting  with  criminal  weakness  did  I  give  further 
rein  to  your  extravagance  or  create  further  opportunities  for 
you  to  debase  your  mind,  your  morals,  and  your  health  by  fre- 
quenting a  low  music  hall.  You  talk  as  if  assured  of  a  pros- 
perous future.  But  let  me  tell  you  this:  by  no  clever  trickery 
can  profligacy  and  low  living  be  brought  into  possession  of  the 
beatitudes. 

"David  was  to-day  ploughing  the  hill  field.     Your  mother 
grieves  sorely  over  your  fall.     She  sends  her  love,  in  which  I  join. 
"Your  loving  father, 

"  JAMES  CALVERT." 

"What  was  it  you  wrote  for?  "  I  asked. 

"  Money  to  pay  my  examination  fees,"  Anthony  said.     "  How 
the  devil  does  he  think  I  can  get  that  out  of  twenty-three  shillings 
a  week?     I  know  for  a  fact  that  he  turned  over  close  on  a  thou- 
sand last  year.     I  've  never  asked  him  for  anything  but  money  to 
buy  books.     Fact  of  the  matter  is,  he  has  never  forgiven  me  for 
taking  that  scholarship  and  so  getting  out  of  his  control.     He 
treated  me  like  a  dog  or  a  slave,  and  would  have  gone  on  doing  it 
until   I  was  gray-haired.     He  treats  David  that  way.     David 's 
only  a  year  younger  than  I  am,  but  he  daren't  open  his  mouth 
at  table  unless  he  's  spoken  to,  and  then  it 's  only  to  say  — *  Yes, 
father  —  No,  father.'     And  he  's  slaved  on  the  farm  since  he  was 
twelve  years  old,  doing  the  work  of  two  hired  men.     He  hates  it: 
he  was  a  far  better  pianist  than  I  shall  ever  be,  and  his  fingers 
have  got  so  thick  and  stiff  that  he  can't  strike  the  notes  and  he 's 
ashamed  to  have  people  see  them.     The  queer  thing  is  that  my 
father  seems  to  dislike  David,  faithful,  respectful  David,  as  much 
as  he  dislikes  me.     He  hates  David's  subservience,  though  he  has 
insisted  upon  it,  and  beaten  the  poor  lad  down  to  it.     As  for  me, 
I  believe  he  loathes  the  sight  of  me  since  I  left  home.     He 's 
persuaded  my  mother  that  I  'm  sunk  in  sin,  and  degraded  beyond 
belief  .  .  ."  Anthony   laughed   shortly.     "  If  you   can  beat  for 
meanness  your  real  narrow  religious  bigot  .  .  .  Dirty-minded, 
prying  .  .  ." 

With  a  sudden  change  of  tone,  he  added  lightly  — "  It  was  n't 


140  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

God  told  him  I  'd  been  to  the  Coliseum.  He 's  been  at  David's 
pockets  again,  thieving  my  letters  to  him." 

He  began  turning  out  his  own  pockets.  He  had  a  shilling  and 
a  few  pennies. 

"  To  profligacy,"  he  said,  "  one-and-sixpence.     Account  closed." 


CHAPTER  III 

IT  was  during  the  hurrying  months  of  this  year  that  Margaret 
and  I  prepared  our  own  pitfalls.  We  had  been  good  friends 
from  the  first  week  of  her  coming  to  town.  When  Michael  began 
to  spend  his  time  at  South  Kensington  we  were  left  to  ourselves 
almost  entirely.  We  worked  and  talked  and  discovered  London 
together.  I  found  myself  mentally  noting  things  that  must 
be  brought  to  Margaret  for  her  criticism.  We  lived  in  each 
other's  minds. 

There  was  no  sense  of  disloyalty  to  Keith  in  our  friendship. 
Why  should  there  have  been?  The  disloyalty  would  have  begun 
with  the  fear  of  it.  For  more  than  two  years  we  went  our  un- 
concerned way. 

I  have  a  vivid  remembrance  of  the  moment  when  I  knew  that 
Margaret  was  very  dear  to  me.  The  moment  should  have  warned 
me  —  might  have  warned  me,  had  I  not  been  in  such  fierce  revolt 
against  the  filthy  old  respectability  that  runs  frantically  about 
shrieking  — "  Oh,  for  God's  sake  don't  let  our  boys  and  girls  get 
intimate.  They'll  fall  in  love.  All  sorts  of  disgraceful  things 
will  happen.  Keep  'em  away,  keep  'em  off.  You  '11  destroy  the 
romance;  they  won't  fall  in  love.  The  birth  rate '11  go  down. 
There  '11  be  no  babies.  There  11  be  too  many  babies."  I  shut 
my  ears. 

We  did  fall  in  love  and  we  set  our  teeth  and  took  our  punish- 
ment. Now  were  the  scratching  old  men  justified?  A  thousand 
times  no.  I  tell  you  we  had  rather  go  through  it  all  again,  suffer 
as  we  suffered,  endure  the  searing  madness  of  regret,  than  give 
up  one  moment  of  our  brief,  defiant  joy.  Margaret,  my  beloved, 
to  have  had  you  in  my  arms,  to  have  felt  your  lips  against  my 
throat,  were  worth  a  hundred  lifetimes  of  ease  and  little  loves. 

I  write  like  a  fool,  clumsily  on  big  sheets  of  paper,  a  man 
scrawling  in  the  dark.  I  shall  not  see  your  face  again,  nor  pine 

141 


142  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

trees  black  against  the  golden  air.    A  fool,  scrabbling  in  the 
past  .  .  . 

You  see  that  we  did  not  come  on  love  quite  unawares.  Mar- 
garet must  have  had  her  warnings  just  as  I  had.  We  could  have 
stopped  it  —  at  one  time.  But  we  did  not  stop  it.  That  would 
have  meant  the  sacrifice  of  things  we  valued  more  than  we  cared 
to  realize  —  an  intimacy  so  rare  and  delightful  that  we  feared 
to  spoil  it  by  thinking  about  it. 

I  do  not  fall  into  the  mistake  of  thinking  ours  an  uncommon 
story.  Friendships  between  men  and  women  —  friendships  of 
a  closer  and  freer  nature  than  was  possible  in  the  past  —  are 
nowadays  not  only  possible:  they  are  inevitable.  Almost  as 
inevitable  is  their  ultimate  conflict  with  an  unyielding  moral 
code  and  the  result  in  disaster,  social  or  personal.  For  us,  there 
was  more  than  the  mere  legal  barrier:  there  was  all  the  dread 
pressure  of  centuries  of  mute  repression  and  suggestion  that 
weakened  and  confused  us.  It  is  clear  to  me  that  if  you  are 
going  to  allow  this  freedom  of  intercourse  between  men  and 
women,  somehow  or  other  those  repressions  must  be  removed. 
The  alternative  is  a  return  to  the  harem  ideal  of  Victorian  ages. 

I  do  not  believe  such  a  return  to  be  possible.  I  believe  that 
if  the  social  code  will  not  stretch  to  the  new  ideals  of  personal 
freedom  it  will  have  to  be  broken  and  re-made.  It  is  useless 
—  it  is  worse  than  useless  for  mitred  old  men  in  gaiters  and  aprons 
to  run  round  like  flustered  hens,  crying  "  sanctity  of  marriage  " 
in  the  face  of  a  problem  which  may  very  well  be  disastrous  to 
civilization  unless  it  is  tackled  by  subtler  and  less  feeble  hands. 

We  paid  heavily,  Margaret  and  I,  for  the  chance  we  took  and 
lost.  But  what  price  does  a  man  pay  for  the  caution  that  halts 
him  at  the  beginning  of  friendship  with  a  "  For  goodness'  sake, 
be  careful,  you  might  fall  in  love  and  have  no  end  of 
trouble  .  .  .  ?  " 

It  was  a  very  little  thing  that  set  our  feet  in  the  road  we  trod 
gaily  to  its  appointed  end.  Who  would  have  believed  that  the 
momentum  could  come  out  of  the  Grafton  Galleries? 

The  years  just  before  the  war  were  full  of  an  amazing  stirring 
in  the  graveyard  of  the  arts.  Poets  whose  eyes  had  for  half  a 
century  been  set  backwards  in  their  heads  were  brutally  thrust 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  143 

aside.  Artists  and  sculptors  wearied  of  competing  with  the  at- 
tractions of  the  popular  novelist  and  the  illustrated  papers.  So 
far  as  we  were  concerned  the  new  art  leaped  upon  us  in  the 
Exhibition  of  1912.  We  went  to  jeer  and  came  away  in  a  state 
of  incredible  exultation.  Margaret  wanted  to  hire  a  taxi  and 
drive  madly  round  the  town.  We  found  ourselves  instead  in  a 
cafe,  drinking  detestable  tea,  eating  quantities  of  black  sticky 
cake  and  talking  in  eager  undertones.  After  all  these  years  I 
feel  a  faint  throb  of  that  amazing  experience,  youth  making  in- 
stinctive answer  to  the  tempestuous  morning  energy  of  a  new 
art.  Even  when  we  had  narrowed  our  admiration  down  to  a 
dozen  pictures,  there  remained  with  us  that  sense  of  peaks  in 
Darien. 

I  remember  sunlit  villages  and  a  road  that  wound  round  a 
high  place  into  infinity,  and  priests  in  a  chapel  whose  shifting 
walls  changed  beneath  our  eyes,  sweeping  back  to  the  edge  of  the 
world. 

In  a  corner,  I  came  across  a  picture  that  had  for  me  the  queer 
attraction  of  distant  lights  seen  faintly  in  the  sea-filled  night. 
A  road,  scarred  by  white  cart  tracks,  ran  gray  and  stark  between 
stark  trees —  a  mountain  road,  still  and  desolate,  and  chill  with 
the  austere  chastity  of  the  heights.  I  came  back  to  it  again 
and  again.  I  would  have  sold  all  that  I  had  to  buy  it,  if  I  had 
had  anything  to  sell. 

Oliver  frankly  loathed  the  new  art.  He  said  it  was  indecent, 
like  an  old  aunt  kicking  her  legs  in  a  flurry  of  green  and  crimson 
petticoats.  "  I  don't  want  to  be  excited  and  stirred,"  he  said. 
"  Art  should  soothe  me.  Is  n't  there  disorder  and  chaos  enough 
in  the  world  without  glorifying  it  in  paint?  " 

The  rest  of  us  quarreled  furiously  with  him,  but  to  no  purpose. 
He  said  that  he  had  asked  the  policeman  at  the  entrance  to  the 
Galleries  his  opinion  of  the  paintings.  The  policeman  replied 
that  for  his  part  he  could  see  neither  art  nor  beauty  in  them. 

"  Look  here,"  Oliver  said  one  evening,  after  a  bitter  argument, 
"  it 's  not  that  I  want  to  be  perverse  and  different.  But  I  can't 
like  the  stuff.  It  disgusts  me.  You  say  it 's  a  return  to  the 
primitive.  Well,  I  say  you  can't  return  to  the  primitive  like  that 
—  not  in  human  decency.  It 's  like  Nebuchadnezzar  eating  grass. 


144  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

It 's  natural  for  the  beasts  of  the  field,  but  for  a  man  it 's  just 
beastly." 

"  Well,"  Margaret  said  unexpectedly,  "  in  a  way  I  agree  with 
you.  But  after  all,  there  must  be  something  about  an  art  that 
could  produce  the  Mountain  Road  —  if  it  never  produced  anything 
else." 

"You  liked  that?"  I  said  quickly.  "It  reminded  you  of 
things  —  moor  roads ?  " 

She  looked  up  with  a  smile,  and  the  firelight  fell  suddenly 
across  her  face.  I  caught  my  breath,  dazed  with  a  sense  of  her 
beauty,  and  filled  with  a  wild,  half-realized  desire.  The  moment 
passed,  and  the  mood  with  it,  dropping  back  into  my  unconscious 
mind  to  bide  its  time  .  .  . 

It  was,  perhaps,  unfortunate  that  we  chose  a  day  of  blazing 
sunshine  to  show  Margaret  the  National  Gallery.  She  came  away 
chilled  and  depressed. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  expected,"  she  said,  "but  nothing  so 
monumentally  heavy." 

The  Rossetti  and  Burne-Jones  pictures  annoyed  her.  "  When 
we  had  a  headache,"  she  said  with  seeming  irrelevance,  "  or  any 
other  ailment,  my  grandfather  came  thundering  into  the  house 
and  told  us  that  a  good  day  at  the  wash-tub  was  all  the  cure  we 
needed.  Those  women  want  a  house-full  of  work  and  a  day  at 
the  wash-tub.  Spineless  horrors." 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  she  insisted  upon  coming  away.  "  I  'm 
sick  of  fat  Venuses,"  she  said. 

Oliver,  whose  idea  of  feminine  beauty  was  just  a  plump,  pink 
Venus,  remonstrated  scornfully.  "  Look  at  the  color,"  he  said, 
"  and  the  line.  You  Ve  had  no  training.  We  ought  n't  to  expect 
you  to  appreciate  the  real  thing  when  you  see  it." 

"  I  don't  see  any  line,"  Margaret  told  him  courteously,  "  only 
a  lot  of  lines,  and  if  training  means  groveling  before  all  those 
fleshy  mountains  and  those  picturesque  posters  (Turner's  sunsets, 
oh,  Margaret ! )  I  'm  glad  I  never  had  any." 

We  were  happier  at  the  Museum.  Margaret  could  hardly  be 
got  out  of  the  Egyptian  gallery.  She  stood  in  front  of  Amen 
Hetep  III  and  talked  about  the  line  and  the  eternal  verities. 

'* Who's  groveling  now?"  Oliver  triumphed,     "And  who's 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  145 

degenerate?  I  have  no  patience  with  the  attitude  of  mind  that 
comes  and  swoons  about  in  an  ecstasy  of  abasement  before  mere 
bulk.  'Oh,  what  a  hell  of  a  lot  of  stone!  What  a  worm  is 
man! '  , 

Margaret  flushed  a  little.  "  Well,"  she  said  slowly,  "  I  don't 
think  that  the  bulk  counts  here.  It  seems  to  me  that  a  statue 
should  be  perfect  and  universal  —  shouldn't,  I  mean,  have  any 
of  the  restless  strivings  of  music,  or  for  the  matter  of  that,  paint- 
ing. That 's  why  I  like  this  better  than  the  Greek.  It  is  serene 
and  immutable  —  a  symbol  of  human  dignity  and  power.  I  like 
its  gravity — *  eternal  lids  apart.'  You  know,  Joy?"  she  ap- 
pealed^ 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  I  said,  "  you  mean  that  after  the  courage  and 
beauty  of  the  Belvedere  Apollo  classic  art  gets  nearer  and 
nearer  the  drawing-room  and  farther  from  the  temple." 

"That's  just  it,"  she  said  eagerly,  "until  the  bust  of  Caesar  is 
full  of  modern  dissatisfaction  and  unrest.  It  might  be  a  Rodin. 
Look  at  that  faun.  It  does  n't  belong  to  woods  but  to  an  orna- 
mental garden.  It  is  Versailles,  years  and  years  before  a  Louis 
drew  his  sacred  breath." 

We  led  Oliver  away  and  fed  him  on  buckwheat  cakes  in  a 
little  American  cafe.  Even  they  did  not  please  him.  "Linen 
with  an  undernote  of  flannel,"  he  said,  and  took  all  my  maple 
syrup  with  his  own.  Margaret  laughed. 

"  Have  half  mine,  J.  J.,"  she  said. 

When  we  left  the  lights  were  lit  and  the  streets  a  fantasy  of 
black  jerking  limbs  and  white  faces,  sharp  and  mask-like  in  the 
yellow  light.  We  were  filled  with  an  irrational  happiness  and 
our  feet  trod  the  streets  of  fairy  .  .  . 

I  suppose  that  the  real  bitterness  of  the  attack  on  the  new 
art  was  rooted  in  an  unconscious  hatred  and  jealousy  of  its 
arrogant  youthfulness.  For  after  all,  this  is  an  old  men's  world, 
reverencing  age,  ruled  by  the  cautions  of  old  men,  listening 
eagerly  to  any  senile  mumbling  that  wags  a  beard  and  smells  of 
the  grave.  On  every  side  the  questing  mind  of  youth  comes  up 
against  the  inert  forces  of  toothless  ignorance  and  the  traditions 
of  the  herd.  The  traditions  may  be  fine,  may  even  be  necessary 
or  useful,  but  we  are  not  allowed  to  satisfy  ourselves  on  that 


146  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

point.  Impulses  and  desires  that  alarm  the  natural  and  seemly 
timidity  of  old  age  are  checked,  and  by  an  ancient  cunning  the 
prohibitions  are  given  the  force  of  divine  law.  The  fat  patriarch, 
greedy  for  wives  and  cattle,  terrified  lest  audacious  young  men 
should  snatch  the  power  from  his  stiffening  hand,  created  a  God 
who  was  ashamed  of  his  works  and  displeased  by  the  naked 
splendor  of  youth  and  young  desire.  And  the  prohibitions  so 
created  have  come  rolling  down  the  ages,  gathering  dust  and 
weight  as  they  came.  You  can  see  the  process  going  on  to-day: 
is  it  not  common  talk,  that  above  all  things  God  shrinks  from 
a  fair  distribution  of  wealth  and  leisure,  quivering  in  all  his 
planets  at  a  socialist  success  .  .  .  ? 

The  truth  is  that  half  the  prejudices  of  the  social  code  do 
not  fit  the  facts  of  modern  life.  They  never  fitted  the  facts, 
but  only  facts  seen  through  the  fear-distorted  vision  of  old  men, 
and  strengthened  now  by  such  forces  of  ignorance,  jealousy  and 
age-long  repression  as  to  be  well-nigh  unassailable  by  reason. 
We  let  youth  blunder  into  a  world  dominated  by  a  tradition 
which  wars  with  his  every  feeling  and  the  witness  of  his  senses, 
his  feeling  for  justice  outraged  by  shameful  injustices  condoned 
and  practised  by  rulers  of  states;  his  impulse  to  decent  frankness 
blunted  by  the  indecent  and  furtive  stealth  with  which  we  ap- 
proach the  most  important  things  in  life;  his  instinct  for  beauty 
and  splendid  dreams  twisted  and  crushed  out  altogether  by  the 
squalid  makeshifts  born  of  indolence  and  greed. 

One  of  two  things  happens.  He  achieves  that  indifference 
which  is  called  good  citizenship,  or  he  wastes  his  energy  in  a 
passionate  and  foredoomed  struggle  against  the  ancient  lies  of 
the  social  order.  Am  I  making  too  much  of  a  common  lot?  Is 
it  nothing  that  energy,  courage,  and  the  desire  for  service  which 
is  in  youth,  should  be  lost  to  a  world  that  has  sore  need  of  all 
these  things? 

I  have  thought  sometimes  that  the  radiant  courage  of  those 
paintings  was  the  forerunner  of  some  youthful  renascence.  And 
then,  out  of  the  blunders  and  pompous  trickeries  of  the  past, 
rose  and  swept  upon  us  the  incredible  and  cataclysmic  torrent 
of  the  war.  The  old  men  sowed  the  whirlwind  and  youth  went 
to  a  bloody  harvesting.  This  is  an  old  men's  war,  fought  to  save 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  147 

ideals  put  in  peril  by  their  acts.  Never  was  a  war  so  applauded 
and  embittered  by  bloodthirsty  old  men,  achieving  a  vicarious 
youth  through  the  life  and  death  of  their  sons. 

If  youth  ruled,  do  you  suppose  it  would  waste  energy  and 
its  short  span  of  years  in  such  a  beastly,  bloody  carnage  as  this? 
With  all  the  disorder  and  misery  of  the  world  to  right,  the  squalid, 
wasted  lives  to  straighten,  knowledge  unachieved,  a  universe 
unconquered  by  the  acolyte  sciences?  I  do  not  believe  it.  The 
desires  of  youth  are  finer  than  that. 

I  pray  to  die  before  I  grow  a  timorous  old  man,  impotently 
greedy  of  life,  fouling  and  betraying  the  splendid  ensigns  of  my 
youth.  Better  be  out  of  life  altogether  than  in  it  thus.  I  have 
had  great  joy  of  life.  Is  it  a  poor  thing  to  have  watched  the 
paling  stars  flicker  and  die  before  the  rushing  sun,  to  have  known 
love  as  I  have  known  it,  standing  between  the  murmuring  black 
wings  of  the  night?  Is  it  nothing  to  have  lived,  known  friend- 
ship, rain,  wind,  bright  waters,  and  the  unimagined  miracle  of 
light? 


CHAPTER  IV 

IT  was  borne  in  upon  me  slowly  that  Michael's  departure  had 
started  a  subtle  disturbance  in  the  balance  of  power.  From 
being  intermittently  aggressive  Oliver  went  on  to  an  attempted 
despotism  that,  while  it  lasted,  made  our  lives  a  burden  to  us. 
He  would  argue  with  Margaret,  and  after  shouting  her  into 
silence,  hold  forth  in  a  roaring  voice  on  art,  on  his  own  poems, 
on  the  craven  timidity  that  neglected  poets,  on  everything  that 
could  be  dragged,  kicking  and  protesting,  into  connection  with 
his  future  greatness. 

"  I  '11  make  them  listen  to  me,"  he  bellowed.  "  I  '11  ram  poems 
down  their  silly  throats.  I  '11  recite  'em  in  the  Strand.  I  '11 
force  them  to  respect  me." 

"  The  world  's  mine  egg-shell,  and  I  '11  bash  it  in,"  Anthony 
murmured. 

Oliver  reduced  his  friends  to  a  hostile  pulp.  We  shrank  from 
crossing  him.  He  read  us  his  poems  in  cafes  and  public  places 
until  he  must  have  laid  the  foundations  of  a  legend.  His  red 
hair  bristled  and  he  gesticulated  like  a  madman.  His  poems 
at  this  time  alternated  the  bawlings  of  a  Fleet  Street  superman 
with  a  morgue-like  atmosphere  of  death  and  pale  women.  The 
pale  women  became  an  obsession. 

"  Look  here,"  Anthony  said  at  last.  "  This  is  for  your  good. 
Unless  you  can  get  rid  of  that  air  of  excessive  weariness  and 
gone-to-my-hole-to-die  attitude,  people  will  never  be  interested 
in  your  stuff." 

The  pale  women  disappeared  from  his  poems,  and  he  began  to 
write  a  quantity  of  verse  that  he  did  not  read  us.  Searching 
among  his  shelves  one  day,  I  came  upon  a  whole  sheaf  of  poems 
pushed  down  among  the  books.  They  were  one  and  all  addressed 
to  Margaret. 

The  thought  of  Oliver  riding  out  to  make  love  with  a  poem 

148 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  149 

in  one  hand  and  a  bludgeon  in  the  other  struck  me  as  so  ex- 
tremely funny  that  I  sat  on  the  floor  and  laughed. 

This  explained  things.  It  explained  his  attitude  to  Margaret, 
his  extraordinary  self-assertion.  I  understood  that  I  had  sus- 
pected it  all  along. 

I  do  not  think  that  I  was  at  all  sorry  for  him.  For  some 
reason  or  other,  my  mind  has  always  refused  to  credit  love  with 
an  aspect  of  tragedy.  I  do  not  see  love  ever  as  tragic.  And 
this  in  spite  of  the  reality  and  intensity  of  my  own  futile  desire. 
At  times  I  sorrowed  like  a  madman.  I  talked  of  my  agony, 
to  myself,  to  Margaret.  And  yet  I  could  never,  at  my  most 
preposterous  moments,  persuade  myself  that  I  was  a  tragic 
figure,  or  that  the  thwarting  of  our  love  and  our  unrealized 
dreams  was  in  any  fashion  tragic.  At  the  back  of  my  mind  I 
knew  that  they  were  not.  I  have  always  known  it. 

But  when  I  had  to  see  Oliver  in  the  attitude  of  desperate  lover, 
I  lost  all  sense  of  decency.  I  rocked  and  roared  with  laughter. 
I  thought  it  irresistibly  comic. 

I  do  not  believe  there  was  any  malice  in  the  laughter.  No 
more  than  the  unconscious  malice  inextricably  mixed  up  with 
the  finest  of  our  thoughts  and  ideals.  Whatever  else  there  may 
be  in  the  universe,  kind  gods  or  evil,  there  is  also  assuredly  a 
spirit  of  malice  that  was  awake  and  biding  its  time  before  ever 
life  quivered  in  the  primal  mud. 

It  was  malice  made  the  disturbance  that  started  this  ancient 
mischief  of  life. 

Love  is  a  ridiculous  passion.  I  have  felt  it  to  be  so  at  the  very 
height  of  my  own  desire,  while  my  body  throbbed  to  the  touch 
of  cool  lips.  Something  destructive  lurks  in  my  mind,  emerging 
round  the  corner  at  the  most  uncalled-for  moments. 

We  have  made  love  ridiculous  with  all  the  trappings  of  chivalry 
and  the  ceremonial  posturings  of  betrothal.  They  are  comic, 
those  two  creatures  who  prance  and  clutch  and  parade  an 
elaborate  mimicry  of  passion  before  the  cynical  discretion  of 
experience.  Two  ludicrous  little  creatures  .  .  . 

It  cannot  all  be  laid  to  the  account  of  civilization.  Even 
savages  go  through  ceremonials  that  differ  not  at  all  in  spirit 
from  the  decent  weddings  of  cultured  folk.  Animals  and  birds, 


150  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

and  I  suppose  insects,  have  their  own  ceremonies  of  rivalry 
and  parade.  The  ridiculousness  of  man  is  rooted  in  the  very 
springs  of  his  life  .  .  . 

All  the  artists  I  have  known  have  been  very  garrulous  men, 
greedy  of  sensation,  and  drawing  all  experiences  into  the  glowing 
center  of  their  self-glorification.  They  hold  that  the  purpose  of 
life  is  art  —  that  is,  their  own  art.  That  first  stirring  in  the  mud, 
is  in  their  sight  a  stirring  towards  the  perfect  picture  and  the 
Wyndham  Lewis. 

Only  by  reducing  words  to  a  pithless  mush  can  life  be  said  to 
be  art,  or  art  life.  Art  at  its  best  is  only  one  expression  of  life's 
multiplicit  unity.  The  most  expressive  art  is  the  most  social- 
minded.  Unconsciously,  our  artist  knows  this,  when  he  tries  to 
make  his  work  a  door  upon  the  universal. 

But  in  his  conscious  mind  the  wretch  forgets  his  super-conscious 
knowledge.  He  peacocks  about,  screeching  the  importance  of  his 
paltry  self.  He  forgets  that  the  only  great  thing  about  him,  often 
the  only  tolerable  thing,  is  the  stream  of  powers,  memories,  and 
visions  poured  into  his  mind  by  generations  of  men  who  strove 
and  dreamed  before  him. 

The  super-consciousness  of  the  artist  is  quick  and  complex  be- 
yond our  understanding.  His  conscious  mind  is  often  at  a  lower 
stage  of  development  than  that  of  the  plodding  scientist  of  his 
scorn. 

I  do  not  know  whether  this  will  help  you  to  understand  Oliver 
at  all.  He  is  indubitably  an  artist.  His  art  shook  free  of  that 
early  nonsense  with  amazing  ease.  It  has  nothing  in  common 
with  the  blustering  and  ranting  of  his  common  speech.  Yet,  in 
everything  but  his  poems,  he  is  as  clumsy  a  roysterer  as  ever 
broke  noses  and  gave  away  his  last  shirt. 

His  love-making  was  doubly  ridiculous  in  the  mirror  of  Mar- 
garet's critical  habit  of  mind.  I  believe  that  at  first  she  did  not 
credit  his  love.  She  had  all  her  share  of  the  diffidence  that  goes 
with  a  critical  intellect.  A  little  incident  helped  to  open  her 
eyes. 

We  had  spent  the  whole  day  walking  about  Epping  Forest. 
We  lunched  at  "  The  Owl  "  on  bread  and  cheese,  and  escaped  with 
difficulty  from  the  clutches  of  Boccaccio,  who  was  sitting  outside 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  151 

the  inn  door  in  a  patch  of  sunlight,  bleared  and  shivering  in 
his  rags,  dreaming  of  olive  groves  and  full  of  disreputable  songs. 
We  reached  home  tired  out,  and  lounged  about  the  room  in  vary- 
ing stages  of  exhaustion.  Anthony  improvised  weakly  for  a  while 
and  then  took  himself  to  bed.  After  he  had  gone,  Oliver  dragged 
Margaret  into  an  argument.  He  was  more  than  usually  aggres- 
sive, and  she  lost  her  temper. 

"  Ton  my  word,  you  are  conceited,"  she  said  hotly.  **  Drop 
some  of  it.  What  have  you  ever  done  to  justify  your  idea  that  you 
are  the  people  and  that  wisdom  will  die  with  you?  "  She  recov- 
ered herself  quickly.  "  I  'm  tired.  Don't  let 's  quarrel." 

Olive?  said  nothing.  He  sat  for  a  while  with  a  sullen  purpose 
growing  in  his  mind.  Then  he  got  up  and  walked  across  to  Mar- 
garet. 

**  See,"  he  said  slowly,  marking  his  words  with  a  queer,  unfin- 
ished gesture,  "  listen  to  me.  I  've  got  a  road  to  follow,  I  'm  not 
going  to  be  dragged  out  of  it  by  you  or  any  one." 

She  looked  up  with  a  smile.  The  ready  jest  died  in  her  throat 
before  the  expression  on  his  face.  He  hesitated,  and  then  strode 
stiffly  out  of  the  room. 

"  What 's  wrong?  "  Margaret  said  uneasily. 

"  He  thinks  he  's  in  love  with  you,"  I  told  her  roughly.  "  You 
might  have  seen  it  long  ago."  Then,  at  the  distress  in  her  eyes, 
I  added  honestly  — "  It 's  not  your  fault,  and  it 's  not  the  fault  of 
your  being  here.  If  you  'd  lived  next  door,  or  in  Hammersmith, 
it  would  have  been  just  the  same.  You  or  some  one  else.  It 
need  n't  worry  you." 


CHAPTER  V 

OLIVER'S  love  was  so  oddly  mixed  up  with  his  work  and  his 
poems  that  Margaret  had  the  less  trouble  in  ignoring  it.  I 
know,  of  course,  that  poets  are  supposed  to  spend  their  lives  com- 
bining love  and  inspiration  into  a  viscous  fluid  that  somehow 
crystallizes  out  into  poetry.  This  is  called  temperament,  and 
viewed  with  a  sidelong  indulgence,  as  delicate  minds  view  the 
necessity  of  manure. 

I  do  not  myself  put  much  faith  in  this  theory.  It  may  hold 
good  of  those  languid,  sticky  poems  that  ooze  sentiment  wherever 
you  touch  them.  But  I  think  that  the  real  art  is  different.  It 
has  to  work  its  way  clean  through  the  emotions  and  come  out 
on  the  other  side  to  spread  its  wings.  Certainly  this  holds  true 
of  Oliver's  art.  His  poems  at  this  time  were  turgid,  unwieldy 
things,  slabs  of  voluptuous  sentiment.  They  wore  an  ass's  head 
and  brayed  in  the  sun.  You  would  hardly  recognize  their  kin- 
ship with  the  later  poems,  written  when  Margaret  had  become  for 
him  a  kind  of  archetype,  a  silent,  beautiful  image,  wrought  of 
ivory  and  gold. 

Margaret  reckoned,  with  a  faint  ironic  assurance,  on  Oliver!s 
outlet  in  his  poems.  She  passed  over  his  moody  angers,  never 
disputed  with  him,  and  never  made  the  mistake  of  trying  to  soothe 
him.  Forced  into  a  closer  intimacy  simply  by  her  knowledge  of 
the  emotion  which  he  threw  round  her,  she  dropped  naturally  into 
Anthony's  methods  of  dealing  with  him.  She  adopted  the  same 
indifferent  tolerance  of  Oliver's  moods  and  tempers  that  had  given 
Anthony  such  a  hold  on  him. 

I  believe  she  did  it  instinctively:  she  had  none  of  that  feminine 
feeling  for  the  "  situation "  that  would  have  led  her  on  from 
finesse  to  finesse  until  she  was  irrevocably  entangled  in  an  irksome 
affair.  Her  keen  wits  were  no  keener  than  her  judgment  of  other 
folk  and  of  herself.  She  was  always  sure  of  herself,  and  felt 
simply  and  clearly.  Her  emotions  did  not  much  color  and  con- 

152 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  153 

fuse  things  for  her.  It  is  not  easy  to  put  into  words  the  quality  of 
simplicity  that  her  mind  possessed.  She  thought  along  lines 
so  simple  and  broad  that  her  thoughts  had  an  appearance  of 
subtlety.  And  yet  she  was  not  subtle,  but  direct,  and  drew  her 
serene  self-confidence  from  some  deep  and  tranquil  source.  Her 
mind  advanced  surely  and  boldly.  It  never  occurred  to  us  to 
think  of  her — "Ah,  there  was  a  woman's  reasoning:  you  think  as 
women  do."  Yet  she  could  not  possibly  have  been  regarded  as 
an  echo  or  imitation  of  any  one  of  us. 

This  suggests  to  me  that  the  differences  between  the  masculine 
and  the  feminine  mind  either  do  not  follow  the  lines  of  sex,  or 
have  been  vastly  exaggerated.  There  was  a  pink-eyed  youth  in 
my  own  classes  whose  mind  finicked  with  problems  just  as  a 
woman's  is  supposed  to  do  —  does  do,  if  feminine  psychologists 
are  to  be  taken  at  their  face  value.  But  Margaret  thought  as  we 
did,  and  tackled  problems  as  we  did.  There  was  nothing  excep- 
tionally brilliant  about  her  intellect.  She  had  rather  the  mind  of 
a  clever  young  man.  She  had  taken  a  brilliant  First  at  college 
but,  as  she  said  herself,  largely  because  the  "  examination  fac- 
ulty," that  curious  mingling  of  imagination  and  a  special  kind 
of  audacity,  was  developed  in  her  to  an  abnormal  degree.  Or- 
dinarily, her  memory  was  given  to  awkward  and  unaccountable 
lapses.  But  let  her  mind  be  faced  by  a  problem,  and  at  once 
everything  she  had  ever  read,  or  heard,  or  thought,  remotely  con- 
nected with  the  point,  rushed  to  her  aid  and  fell  into  its  proper 
order. 

I  did  not  intend  to  set  out  upon  an  examination  of  Margaret's 
intellect,  but  just  to  note  that  she  never  seemed  to  have  a  feminine 
mind :  a  mind,  that  is,  lacking  a  certain  amplitude  of  imagination 
and  a  certain  unconscious  confidence,  a  feudal  confidence  of 
power.  Margaret  had  lived  the  first  sixteen  years  of  her  life 
alone,  and  thereafter  had  men  as  friends  and  lived  with  men. 

I  suppose  this  made  things  easier  for  her  with  Oliver.  He  cer- 
tainly did  his  best  to  develop  a  situation  which  would  have  been 
an  irresistible  temptation  to  many  women.  I  could  imagine  my- 
self the  exploitation  it  would  have  undergone  in  skilful  hands. 
Margaret  walked  unseeing  through  its  every  possibility.  This 
first  annoyed  my  touchy  brother,  and  then  drove  him  to  open 


154  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

rage.  I  think  he  simply  could  not  understand  Margaret's  indif- 
ference. It  seemed  almost  blasphemous  to  him.  He  began  an 
unabashed  dance  of  love,  and  at  last  staked  his  all  on  a  "  crown- 
ing mercy  "  of  truly  Puritan  arrogance. 

It  was  the  first  week  of  the  summer  vacation.  Anthony  had 
gone  home,  and  we  were  packing  to  go  north  next  day.  Margaret, 
kneeling  on  the  hearth  rug,  sorted  books  and  arranged  them  in 
tea-chests.  We  paid  what  our  landlady  called  retaining  money 
for  our  rooms  during  the  long  summer  vacation,  but  we  knew 
that  she  would  let  them  as  soon  as  our  backs  were  turned,  and  we 
did  not  care  to  have  strangers  pawing  our  books. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  with  Mick's  books?  "  Margaret  said  sud- 
denly. "  Shall  I  pack  them  with  yours,  Joy,  or  put  them  in  a 
separate  box?  He  might  send  for  them." 

"  How  much  room ?  "  I  began. 

"  Put  the  damn  things  in  the  fire,"  Oliver  interrupted,  "  and  for 
pity's  sake  stop  shuffling  them  about.  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  It 's 
the  last  chance  I  shall  have  for  weeks.  Can't  you  finish  that  in 
the  morning?  " 

Margaret  looked  at  him,  and  then  got  obediently  to  her  feet. 
She  seemed  to  have  come  to  a  decision. 

"What  do  you  want  to  talk  about?  "  she  said.  Every  chair 
was  piled  with  books:  she  seated  herself  on  the  table. 

I  prepared  to  give  Margaret  my  moral  support  in  any  argu- 
ment. There  was  no  argument.  Oliver  was  too  much  in  earnest 
and  too  unexpectedly  wary  for  that. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  want  to  talk  about  anything,"  he  said 
deliberately.  "  But  there  's  some  things  I  've  got  to  tell  you  before 
I  go.  The  first  is  this.  When  you  were  at  college,  you  got  your- 
self engaged.  You  were  too  young  to  know  what  you  were  doing, 
and  you  made  a  mistake.  You  can't  deny  it  I  've  watched  you 
over  his  letters.  Things  you  've  said  —  oh,  you  did  n't  know  your- 
self what  you  were  saying:  I  'm  not  accusing  you  of  whining  or 
disloyalty." 

"Thank  you,"   Margaret  said   softly. 

Oliver  glared  at  her.  "  Don't  fool,"  he  said  angrily.  "  Can't 
you  see  things  are  too  serious  for  that?  " 

I  stifled  a  desire  to  laugh.     I  felt  that  if  I  laughed,  Margaret 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  155 

would  laugh  too,  and  the  scene  would  slip  from  comic  melodrama 
into  unpleasant  farce. 

"  Perhaps  you  'd  like  me  to  go?  "  I  turned  towards  the  door. 

"  Don't  go,  Joy,"  Margaret  murmured, 

"You  can  go  or  stay  as  you  please,"  Oliver  said.  "It's  all 
one  to  me.  What  I  've  got  to  say  to  Margaret  can  be  said  any- 
where." He  swung  himself  off  the  arm  of  the  chair  and  stood  in 
front  of  her.  "  You  know  you  've  made  a  mistake.  Very  likely 
the  map-'s  a  fool,  an  attractive  fool." 

Margaret  flicked  the  ash  off  her  cigarette.  Her  hand  shook  as 
she  did  it.  She  was  coldly  angry.  The  comedy  began  to  taste 
bitter. 

"  Your  judgment  on  a  man  you  've  never  seen  is  well  worth  hav- 
ing," she  said.  Her  voice  softened.  "  Don't  be  a  fool,  Oliver. 
You  're  making  a  far  worse  mistake  yourself  than  I  am  ever  likely 
to  make." 

He  tugged  at  his  hair  until  it  stood  round  his  face  like  the 
fiery  bush.  "  Be  quiet,  and  listen  to  me,"  he  shouted. 

She  smiled  at  him.  "  Very  well,"  she  said  carelessly.  "  Go 
on:  I  '11  listen.  We  might  as  well  have  it  out  now." 

Oliver  began  to  talk  with  an  odd  emphasis.  As  he  talked,  his 
eyes  shone,  and  he  seemed  half  mesmerized  by  the  sound  of  his 
voice.  He  made  a  kind  of  song  to  love.  Afterwards  he  turned 
it  into  a  sonnet:  the  sonnet  gained  in  concentration  what  it  lost 
in  humanity. 

He  was  in  desperate  earnest.  While  I  listened,  the  unconscious 
resentment  I  had  been  harboring  against  him  stole  to  the  brink 
of  my  mind  and  was  lost  in  a  half-anguished  tenderness.  I  re- 
membered him  as  a  fat,  sobbing  child.  I  remembered  the  time 
he  fell  down  the  cliffs  and  I  scrambled  after  him,  frantic  and 
dizzy,  slipping  down  the  sheer  rocks  and  clutching  at  moss  and 
trees.  The  tenderness  swept  out  and  encircled  Margaret.  I 
thought  of  her  vaguely  as  very  fair  and  pleasant.  Oliver's  love 
seemed  an  alien  legend. 

Oliver's  voice  rose  and  fell. 

"  You  don't  understand  what  I  mean.  You  don't  feel  with  me. 
I  must  try  to  make  you  feel.  You  must  see  the  things  I  see, 
and  then  you  will  feel  them  as  I  do.  One  day  I  stood  on  the 


156  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

school  asphalt  and  looked  down  at  the  flowers  in  the  valley  gar- 
dens. The  buds  were  opening  on  the  trees,  and  the  sky  was 
clear,  swept  by  the  wind.  The  sea  called  up  the  valley.  As  I 
looked,  I  felt  all  at  once  light  and  diffuse.  My  brain  was  quite 
clear.  There  was  nothing  mystic  about  my  sensations.  Now,  is 
there  anything  mystic  about  me? 

"  I  felt  that  I  had  only  to  reach  out  a  hand  to  touch  the  rim  of 
the  sea.  I  laid  the  tips  of  my  fingers  on  the  edge  of  the  hill. 
I  floated  on  the  cold  green  waves.  I  brushed  with  my  hair  the 
stately  white  galleons  of  the  sky.  I  was  lifted  up  and  scattered 
over  the  world.  Oh,  I  was  happy.  I  was  happy  like  children 
and  young  lovers  and  puppies  playing  in  the  sun.  All  the  sor- 
rows of  the  world  fell  from  me  in  shining  drops  as  I  rose,  fell  and 
were  lost  in  the  crying  sea.  I  was  youth  before  sorrow  came  upon 
men.  I  was  in  all  things.  I  was  the  yellow  crocus,  brave  between 
the  dark  spaces  of  the  trees  as  a  trumpet  calling  through  the  bat- 
tle. I  was  the  folded  leaves  in  the  pink,  shining  buds  of  the  syca- 
mores: I  throbbed  with  secret  life  and  pressed  against  the  calyx 
to  burst  into  the  radiance  of  the  world.  I  thrust  up  through  the 
dark  earth  between  the  cool,  whispering  leaves  of  the  daffodils. 
I  was  the  sea:  I  flung  myself  against  the  circling  cliffs;  I  ran  with 
white  foam  of  laughter  along  the  untouched  sand.  I  was  the  rush 
of  the  hill  against  the  sky:  trees  sprang  from  my  bosom  and  flow- 
ers gleamed  in  my  valleys.  I  was  the  bounding  arch  of  the  sky: 
I  stooped  through  space  in  a  curve  of  ecstasy:  the  stars  rode  in 
me  ... 

"That  day  I  knew  I  should  be  great;  I  should  say  words  the 
world  would  hear.  I  knew  that  men  would  do  me  honor.  And 
that  day  there  was  born  in  me  also  a  secret  pain.  It  grew,  and 
darkened  at  last  the  sea  and  the  heavens,  it  sought  out  and 
chilled  the  smallest  of  the  flowers.  I  never  understood  it.  I 
strained  against  the  bars  that  held  me.  I  tried  to  find  again  that 
joy.  But  I  could  not.  Not  until  now  have  I  understood  what 
held  me  back.  It  was  desire.  It  is  my  desire  for  you.  I  might 
be  all  the  world  else,  but  not  you.  If  you  deny  me,  how  can  I 
ever  be  free  again?  You  cannot  deny  me." 

The  room  was  filled  with  his  pleading:  it  came  from  afar  off 
and  swept  against  the  walls.  We  three  stood  in  a  place  held 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  157 

above  time  and  the  world.  Below  us  passed  the  dead  lovers, 
dry  leaves  scurrying  before  the  wind,  and  those  who  lived,  and 
scattered  themselves  in  flowers  along  the  road. 

The  red,  level  rays  of  the  sun  came  through  the  window  behind 
him.  He  was  a  Viking  in  shabby  tweeds,  inaureoled  in  his  hair. 

Margaret  seemed  to  rouse  herself  from  a  long  reverie.  She 
sighed,  and  her  voice  was  gentle. 

"  I  don't  love  you,"  she  said.  "  I  admire  you  and  honor  you. 
You  would  be  laying  me  under  a  great  obligation  if  you  would 
believe  that  I  say  this  from  my  heart.  I  love  you  for  what  you 
do  ~*-T>ut  not  you." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that?  "  Oliver  said  incredulously.  He  stared 
at  her  as  a  man  might  stare  over  the  edge  of  a  dizzy  gulf. 

Margaret  smiled.     "  Quite  sure,  dear  old  thing." 

"  I  shall  respect  what  you  say,  but  you  are  making  a  great 
mistake,"  he  told  her  solemnly. 

Comedy  returned  to  the  world,  shutting  the  fantastic  doors  be- 
hind her. 

He  did  not  go  back  on  his  word.  From  that  day,  he  presented 
a  stolid,  friendly  front  to  her  criticisms.  What  inner  strife  and 
triumph  that  front  may  have  masked,  I  do  not  pretend  to  guess. 
I  do  not  doubt  but  he  will  marry,  and  rear  a  family.  Neither 
do  I  think  he  will  cease  to  wonder  at  the  want  of  sensibility  that 
deprived  Margaret  of  so  excellent  a  husband. 

He  no  longer  quarreled  with  her,  and  shut  his  love  in  some 
eerie  of  his  mind. 


CHAPTER  VI 

MICHAEL'S  departure  did  more  than  disturb  our  domestic 
balance  of  power.  It  threw  into  high  relief  the  dominat- 
ing quality  of  Kersent's  intellect. 

Kersent  was  the  most  frigid  of  men.  He  seemed  to  have  no 
affections  except  a  rudimentary  liking  for  Mick.  He  disliked  his 
father,  and  hardly  noticed  that  his  mother  existed.  His  unfailing 
courtesy  and  gentle  voice  were  chill  as  winter  sunlight.  And  he 
professed  an  unbounded  love  of  Humanity.  All  the  respect  and 
admiration  that  he  withheld  from  greedy,  servile,  struggling  man, 
he  poured  out  before  a  shining  myth.  Once  remove  the  blighting 
weight  of  the  capitalist,  and  the  stunted  growth  would  expand  and 
flower  in  the  sun.  It  would  be  full-blown  and  glorious  on  the  in- 
stant. He  cherished  the  dream  in  his  frozen  heart  like  a  flame  im- 
prisoned in  crystal.  His  mind  refused  obstinately  to  dwell  on 
the  perverted  growth  and  useless  blossomings  that  would  precede 
the  final  flower. 

He  had  the  most  acute  mind  I  ever  encountered.  But  he  was 
beguiled  by  that  ancient  Deessa  of  philosophers  —  the  perfecti- 
bility of  man.  Before  you  let  loose  your  scorn,  you  instructed 
and  clear-sighted  ones,  remember  that  Aristotle,  yea,  Aristotle  the 
sane  and  golden,  is  fabled  to  have  frisked  on  hands  and  knees 
with  a  lady  on  his  back,  at  the  bidding  of  a  desired  mistress. 

It  followed  naturally  from  this  dream  of  his,  that  Kersent 
should  shrink  from  the  fact  of  man's  kinship  with  the  perishing 
beasts.  In  a  vague  way  he  understood  that  the  purely  human 
standard  he  set  up  in  his  psychological  work  was  unjust  and  nar- 
row. But  man's  natural  history  repelled  him.  So  did  embryo 
man.  The  plates  in  my  biology  books  turned  him  sick.  He  had 
an  innate  contempt  for  imperfect,  struggling  things.  I  believe 
that  this  was  born  in  some  queer  way  of  his  own  fearful  struggle 
against  a  maimed  existence. 

"You  biologists  are  indecently  curious,"  he  said  to  me  once. 

158 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  159 

"  You  upset  the  balance  of  power :  you  'd  destroy  our  self-respect 
if  we  gave  you  half  a  chance." 

"  We  'd  correct  it,  you  mean.  You  rest  your  respect  and  pride 
on  a  lot  of  things  that  seem  to  you  finely  human  —  your  desire 
for  a  God,  your  mechanical  skill,  your  moral  inhibitions,  all  the 
rest  of  it  —  things  that  don't  in  the  least  belong  solely  to  man." 

"  I  don't,"  he  interrupted. 

"  We  are  looking  at  the  same  thing  from  different  sides. 
You.^e  looking  persistently  forward:  you  find  the  developing 
stage  repulsive.  You  want  your  mind  to  be  very  clean  and  or- 
derly, with  pamphlets  laid  neatly  in  rows  under  the  white  light 
of  an  unimpeachable  and  frigid  love  of  humanity." 

He  denied  this,  but  it  was  more  than  half  true. 

He  felt  in  just  the  same  way  about  the  stages  of  national 
development.  He  refused  to  believe  that  there  lingered  on  in 
modern  nations  echoes  of  tribal  hates  and  jealousies.  He  thought 
that  the  capitalist  explained  every  evil  strain  in  national  life. 
Sweep  him  away,  and  men  would  straightway  fall  into  each  other's 
arms  in  an  ecstasy  of  brotherly  love.  The  idea  of  strife  was  hate- 
ful to  him.  He  sought  to  gloss  it  over  in  the  tale  of  man's  growth. 
He  would  have  none  of  it  in  that  fair  ideal  future. 

"The  old  common  rule  was  built  on  fear,"  he  said,  "but  the 
men  of  modern  nations  do  not  fear  or  hate  each  other,  though 
their  rulers  may  try  to  persuade  them  that  they  do.  Such 
treachery  will  never  succeed  again  as  it  did  in  the  past." 

But  of  course,  you  cannot  get  rid  of  fear  by  pretending  that 
it  is  not  there. 


CHAPTER  VII 

/"^HAMBERLAYN  brought  a  message  from  his  father.  That 
\jl  preposterous  aristocrat  was  playing  with  the  idea  of  editing 
a  new  weekly  paper  and  he  wanted  to  talk  to  us.  The  paper  — 
which  had  already  a  name  and  no  body  —  was  to  express  the  soul 
of  the  worker  in  art.  It  was  bred  in  the  weary  imaginations  of 
two  rich  young  men  who  had  swung  into  fantasy  as  a  relief 
from  their  fathers'  bourgeois  industry.  I  think  they  were  in- 
trigued by  the  idea  of  a  ducal  editor:  the  Duke  himself  was 
filled  with  divine  madness  and  the  soul  of  all  the  workers  was 
born  in  him.  Chamberlayn  was  very  annoyed  and  looked  to  us 
to  discourage  his  incredible  father. 

Margaret  would  not  come.  We  were  very  late  in  reaching  the 
Mayfair  cottage,  and  dinner  was  ending  confusedly  in  coffee  and 
Benedictine.  The  Duke  was  excited  and  introduced  us  rapidly 
to  his  other  guests.  One  of  its  youthful  founders  was  explaining 
the  purpose  of  "  The  Machine,"  and  resented  the  interruption.  We 
seated  ourselves  in  corners.  I  found  myself  beside  Jack  Cham- 
berlayn who  was  glowering  at  the  company  in  mute  disgust. 

The  rich  young  man  struggled  with  a  desire  to  make  an  ora- 
tion. He  kept  rising  from  his  chair  and  slipping  back  into  it  as 
he  recaptured  his  first  sweet  faintness  of  speech.  "  I  have  been," 
said  he,  "  in  tramcars,  and  looking  at  the  tired  faces  and  worn, 
stained  hands,  wondered  what  dreams  and  ambitions  strained  be- 
hind those  stolid  masks.  I  have  thought  that  we  who  know  so 
much,  we  tolerant,  audacious  ones,  might  go  —  reverently  — 
*  lights  in  hands,  old  music  on  our  lips ' —  and  open  the  world  for 
those  anxious  eyes." 

There  was  a  sudden  movement  at  the  other  side  of  the  table 
and  another  young  man  got  violently  to  his  feet,  tugging  at  the 
collar  of  his  shabby  tweed  jacket.  The  Duke  put  a  restraining 
hand  on  his  shoulder  and  he  collapsed  unexpectedly.  **  He  's  a 
real  worker,"  Jack  murmured,  "  I  wonder  where  they  trapped 
him." 

160 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  161 

My  memories  of  that  dinner  are  vague.  The  room  was  warm 
and  through  a  thick  haze  of  smoke  I  caught  sight  of  the  real 
worker  wiping  vigorously  round  the  inside  of  his  collar. 

A  glass  was  broken,  and  on  the  polished  table  the  fragments 
were  tiny  opalescent  pools  gleaming  in  the  candle-light.  The  only 
light  in  the  room  came  from  the  candles  grouped  in  the  center 
of  the  table,  and  the  faces  of  the  Duke's  strange  guests  made  nar- 
row slits  in  the  surrounding  shadows. 

An  ^American  poet  emerged  into  the  circle  of  light  and  read  a 
poerrf  of  his  own  writing.  He  read  it  deliberately,  and  Oliver 
wrote  it  on  the  back  of  an  envelope. 

If  you  were  a  girder  you  would  feel  that  which  I  do  — 

The  iron  throbbing  of  a  new  heart: 

The  heart  of  the  new  world, 

The  world  that  we  have  made. 

It  throbs  as  the  Nasmyth  hammer  throbs, 

In  steel  and  granite  it  is  forging  a  fresh  creation. 

God  was  an  amateur:  even  his  rocks  are  our  playthings. 

In  our  naked  impulse  we  challenge  malignant  Nature. 

Afterwards  he  made  a  long  speech.  He  had  all  the  nai've 
earnestness  of  the  American.  I  felt  worn  out  and  sick  of  an  effete 
civilization.  He  spoke  of  his  flag,  with  a  reverence  that  made 
us  squirm.  And  he  produced  the  Peace  of  God  from  its  starry 
folds  with  a  gesture  charmingly  complacent.  His  words  rose  over 
the  flickering  candles  like  little  doves  fluttering  to  rest.  I  heard 
them  in  fragments,  infinitely  soothing  and  warm.  "A  new  fra- 
ternity .  .  .  confused  spontaneous  outgrowth  of  sympathy  .  .  . 
no  more  war  .  .  .  conference  .  .  .  council  .  .  .  arbitration  boards." 

The  mask-like  faces  on  either  side  of  him,  upturned  to  his 
earnestness,  reflected  it  oddly.  He  flung  out  his  arms.  "The 
vast  armies,  the  powerful  military  class,  the  allied  interests  of 
depredators  the  world  over,  will  vanish  with  slow  steps  before  the 
incoming  tide  of  the  brotherhood  of  man.  Meekness  will  breed 
meekness,  and  through  the  silent  suffering  of  injuries  the  world 
progresses  to  a  universal  friendliness." 

The  word  "  progress  "  stuck  in  my  throat  and  I  could  not  say 
Amen.  While  I  sat  staring  at  the  American's  round  cheerful 
face  it  changed  and  became  subtly  rounder  and  looser  and  dis- 


162  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

pleasing.  He  lifted  his  napkin  to  his  lips  and  the  illusion  was 
complete.  Erasmus  Butterby  grimaced  in  his  place,  wiping  the 
overflow  of  repletion  from  his  beard,  as  I  had  often  seen  him  wipe 
it  when  he  rose  from  the  table  at  our  school  Speech  Days,  oozing 
benevolence. 

Now,  Erasmus  Butterby's  grandfather  was  of  the  belief  that  we 
progress  inevitably  towards  the  disappearance  of  evil.  The  par- 
son told  him  so,  and  the  scientist  jogged  his  elbow  on  the  other 
side  and  babbled  — "  Survival  of  the  fittest:  adaptation  to  environ- 
ment," and  other  sayings  that  sounded  very  impressive  to  the 
earlier  Erasmus  Butterby.  "  If  only  those  survive  who  are  fit," 
thought  he,  "  and  only  those  survive  who  adapt  themselves  to  their 
surroundings,  then  fitness  and  adaptability  are  the  same  thing. 
And  since  evil  is  certain  to  disappear  in  time,  all  is  for  the  best 
in  the  best  of  all  possible  worlds;  let  the  surroundings  be  what 
they  will,  the  fittest  men  will  survive  them  and  good  will  tri- 
umph." And  the  parson  wagged  his  head  and  the  scientist  his 
tongue. 

So  the  Butterby  ancestor  went  out  and  helped  to  create  for  a 
few  million  folk  an  environment  that  relegated  Hell  to  the  cate- 
gory of  summer  resorts  and  watering  places.  He  crippled  chil- 
dren in  factories,  tied  half-naked  women  to  carts  in  mines,  and 
persuaded  whole  families  of  peasants  to  fill  their  bellies  with 
the  filth  of  the  earth's  produce.  The  folk  who  could  survive  that 
would  be  very  fit  indeed,  he  thought,  and  the  triumph  of  good  so 
much  the  more  swift  and  certain.  His  excellent  intentions  were 
frustrated,  but  not  before  he  had  made  smooth  the  way  for  Eras- 
mus Butterby  his  grandson,  to  slaver  imperially  on  our  school 
platform,  and  build  him  a  brick  palace  to  house  his  lothly  carcass 
on  our  very  cliffs. 

See  what  comes  to  a  race  that  consents  to  adapt  itself  to  any 
environment.  Butterby  spawn! 

Anthony  jabbed  me  vigorously  with  his  elbow.  The  Duke  was 
appealing  for  my  opinion  on  "  The  Machine,"  and  his  son  was 
whispering  nervously,  "  For  God's  sake,  Hearne."  I  tried  to 
get  rid  of  Erasmus  Butterby. 

"  I  hardly  know  what  you  want  the  paper  to  do,"  I  said  un- 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  163 

happily.  "  Some  one  said  Art  and  some  one  said  Brotherly  Love. 
It 's  no  good  singing  '  Our  hope  is  the  hope  of  the  world '  in  a 
dirty  room  to  a  vacuous  audience.  But  there  's  desire  behind  all 
that  messy  sentiment.  We  are  being  pushed  towards  a  society 
wide  as  the  world  and  tolerant  as  the  air  that  shrinks  from  no 
man." 

A  voice  came  wearily  from  the  shadows  — "  Oh,  shut  up !  "  It 
was  the  real  worker.  I  tried  to  see  him,  but  two  of  the  six  candles 
had  guttered  out  and  his  face  was  a  mere  hovering  malice.  I  for- 
got *  The  Machine  "  in  my  eagerness  to  explain  to  him. 

"  Progress,"  I  repeated  vaguely,  "  we  've  progressed  because 
each  of  us  had  at  his  service  all  the  minds  of  all  the  other  people 
he  could  understand.  The  more  minds  a  man  can  touch  and  un- 
derstand the  further  he  gets.  When  we  arrive  at  the  limit  of  our 
capacity  for  this  kind  of  sympathy  we  Ve  arrived  at  the  limit  of 
human  progress.  We  've  got  to  choose  now  between  our  ancient 
instinct  to  sympathy  and  our  old  reasons  for  fear.  Fear  has  had 
its  biological  day.  It  served  us  once,  but  we  must  escape  from 
that  prison-house." 

The  rich  young  man  lost  patience.  "  I  think,"  he  said  suavely, 
"  that  we  are  forgetting  the  purpose  of  our  meeting,  which  is  the 
format  of  '  The  Machine.'  I  have  here  a  few  sketches  of  my  own 
that  we  propose  giving  to  the  world.  They  are  expressive  of  the 
new  spirit.  As  the  poet  said,  *  In  «teel  and  granite  it  is  forging 
a  new  creation.'  It  is  the  soul  of  the  worker  in  art" 

He  unrolled  a  large  sheet  of  paper.  It  bore  a  drawing  in  char- 
coal of  a  naked  and  horribly  bulbous  female.  The  young  man  in 
the  shabby  Norfolk  pointed  a  fork  at  it.  "  Put  it  away,"  he  said 
angrily.  "  It 's  not  decent." 

The  artist  flushed.  "  The  bourgeois  are  rotten  with  morality," 
he  said,  "but  I  should  not  have  imagined  that  the  prolet- 
ariat   " 

"Proletariat  nothing!  "  the  other  shouted,  and  "Hell  to  your 
imaginings  .  .  .!  Art  .  .  .!  " 

He  choked  and  rushed  from  the  room.  Oliver,  who  was  near 
the  door,  rushed  after  him,  and  Anthony  and  I  followed  as  quickly 
as  we  could  get  away. 


164  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

There  was  no  sign  of  Oliver  outside,  and  we  had  been  home  an 
hour  before  he  came.  He  had  been  walking  about  London  with 
the  angry  young  man. 

"  His  name  is  Donnel.  I  asked  him  to  come  to-morrow  night 
to  see  if  there  was  any  of  your  books  he  wanted.  Seems  he  yearns 
after  a  treatise  on  Mezozoic  jungles.  Wonder  what  he  thought 
'  The  Machine '  was  going  to  do  for  him." 

We  lent  him  books,  and  that  week  I  spent  some  hours  helping 
him.  The  following  week  we  found  ourselves  lending  books  and 
playing  tutor  to  half  a  dozen  of  his  friends.  Our  small  room  was 
unpleasantly  crowded.  We  contemplated  hiring  an  empty  room 
somewhere  and  offering  our  priceless  boon  of  education  to  the 
service  of  the  new  spirit.  We  thought  that  we  could  serve  it  at 
least  as  well  as  "  The  Machine."  We  were  filled  with  a  missionary 
impertinence  and  a  passionate  longing  to  help.  We  talked  of 
our  vague  plans  as  the  Scheme,  and  sat  up  o'  nights  to  elaborate 
it.  Before  men  can  want  better  things,  we  said,  they  must  know 
about  them.  In  place  of  the  rewards  of  heaven  we  would  make 
them  covet  the  rewards  of  earth.  We  would  take  them  into  a  high 
place  and  show  to  the  dispossessed  heirs  the  power  and  glory 
of  their  heritage.  As  once  before,  the  humanities  should  prepare 
the  way  for  a  new  communion  of  man. 

Kersent  was  full  of  doubts. 

"The  humanities  aren't  bred  in  slums,"  he  said  scornfully. 
"  Nor  understanding.  What  does  my  father  understand  except 
that  he  lives  the  life  he  was  born  to  —  the  life  of  his  kind?  He 
says  '  Such  things  are  n't  for  the  likes  of  we.'  He  is  sure  that  I 
am  climbing  for  a  fall.  Of  course  there  are  others,  but  not  like 
him.  Men  who  are  discontented  and  aggressive.  But  they  don't 
understand  aught  but  the  injustice  done  them.  Most  of  them  only 
want  more  for  their  bellies  and  their  backs.  A  few  want  power, 
but  even  they  will  give  you  a  poor  sort  of  answer  if  you  ask  them 
—  Power  for  what?  Freedom  for  what?  "  He  frowned. 

"  Suppose,"  I  said,  "  when  you  were  struggling  on  by  your- 
self, you  'd  known  of  a  group  of  young  men  who  would  have  felt 
honored  to  help  you  and  lend  you  books.  Suppose  you  'd  known 
of  a  room  where  they  came  every  night  to  lecture  and  talk, 
would  n't  you  have  taken  advantage  of  it?  " 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  165 

His  hesitation  was  inexplicable.  "  I  might "  he  said,  and 

added  — "  If  I  'd  been  sure  that  you  were  n't  trying  to  uplift  me 
or  get  me.  Under  some  damned  social  reform  scheme." 

"  We  should  have  to  avoid  giving  that  impression,"  I  said. 
"  You  could  help  us  there." 

After  a  while  he  began  to  enter  into  our  plans  with  a  question- 
ing enthusiasm.  We  had  to  get  a  room.  We  had  to  enlist  the 
help  of  labor  groups  and  societies.  We  had  to  go  with  care,  lest 
we  should  be  found  trespassing  on  established  preserves.  Michael 
had  been  gone  more  than  a  year  when  we  held  our  first  meeting, 
class,  whatever  you  like  to  call  it:  we  shrank  from  defining  it  our- 
selves. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

%  VTHEN  we  began  to  look  round  for  a  room,  Kersent  said  — 
W  "  We  'd  better  go  to  see  Dora  and  Tommy.  If  you  can  get 
their  support,  it  may  save  you  a  deal  of  trouble." 

He  took  us  to  Dora  and  Tommy.  They  lived  in  Acton,  in  an 
amorphous  street  of  small  houses  facing  on  to  a  forlorn  field. 
Theodore  Gurney  was  a  slack-bodied  youth  with  a  frayed  smile, 
and  Tommy  was  his  wife.  "  I  '11  not  tell  you  anything  about 
them,"  Kersent  had  said.  "You  can  judge  them  for  yourself. 
They  're  college-bred  —  northern  university.  No :  not  yours,  Mar- 
garet. One  of  the  others.  Always  one  of  the  others  —  accord- 
ing to  which  one  you  've  come  from.  He  's  a  fairly  well-known 
organizer  in  the  I.L.P.,  and  it  will  be  worth  your  while  to  interest 
him." 

We  waited  in  a  small  sitting-room  while  Dora  went  upstairs 
to  look  for  Tommy. 

"  She 's  in  bed,"  he  explained.  "  We  were  up  awfully  late 
last  night.  She  writes  most  of  her  articles  in  bed.  I  expect  you 
know  her  writing.  She 's  *  Goldfinch '  in  the  '  Beacon.'  Fine 
style,  eh?  " 

He  was  gone  before  we  had  time  to  confess  ignorance.  We 
sat  looking  round  the  room.  Books  strewed  the  chairs  and  over- 
flowed on  to  the  floor.  The  hearth  was  littered  with  pans,  and 
in  one  corner  a  tray  of  unwashed  pots  balanced  itself  on  a  hassock. 
A  cupboard  stood  open  on  an  indescribable  medley  of  pots,  books, 
groceries,  scraps  of  food,  and  mixed  garments.  A  large  hat 
perched,  leering,  on  a  tin  of  fish.  The  room's  second  door  led  to 
a  small  kitchen  where  the  dirty  pots  and  pans  were  thick  as  flies. 
Dust  coated  everything,  even  the  typewriter  standing  on  the  table 
in  a  litter  of  papers.  Dora  had  been  typing  when  we  came.  We 
struggled  with  the  temptation  to  look  at  his  work. 

A  scrambling  sound  upstairs  was  evidently  Tommy.  A  few 

166 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  167 

minutes  later  she  came  into  the  room,  peering  at  us  with  large 
pale  eyes.  Wisps  of  hair  hung  round  her  colorless  face.  Kersent 
introduced  us. 

"  Oh,  how  do  you  do?  "  she  said  carelessly.  "  You  don't  mind 
my  untidiness,  do  you?  I  just  rolled  out  of  bed  and  threw 
something  on  when  Dora  said  you  were  here." 

We  began  to  tell  them  our  plans,  feeling  like  peddlers  at  an 
inhospitable  back  door.  Tommy  fidgeted  round  the  room.  She 
kicked  the  cupboard  door  shut,  and  began  to  make  tea,  searching 
in  both  rooms  for  clean  cups. 

"Oh  damn,"  she  said,  "they're  all  dirty.  Dora,  you're  a 
filthy  pig;  you  promised  to  wash  up." 

Margaret  got  up  to  help. 

"  Now  for  goodness'  sake,  don't  think  you  ought  to  bother," 
Tommy  said.  "  You  '11  only  get  grease  on  you.  The  place  is 
disgustingly  dirty.  It 's  really  Dora's  week  to  clean  up,  and  he 's 
too  beastly  lazy." 

Dora  protested.  "  Well,  you  know  you  never  cleaned  up  last 
week.  You  can't  expect  me  to  do  all  the  mucky  work." 

Margaret  walked  into  the  kitchen.  The  door  shut  behind  them. 
We  discussed  things  with  Dora,  and  at  odd  moments  through  the 
discussion  I  heard  Tommy's  high  voice  and  fragments  of  her 
talk.  Once  she  said  — "  This  is  no  work  for  a  trained  mind,  now 
is  it?  I  say  we  were  fools  to  take  a  house.  But  Dora  would 
have  one.  He  likes  to  have  somewhere  to  ask  his  silly  Labor  peo- 
ple. He  feeds  'em,  and  I  'm  supposed  to  clean  up  the  mess.  But 
not  me.  I  say  he  's  got  to  take  his  share." 

And  again  — "  Yes,  I  know  all  that,  but  it 's  a  degrading  job  all 
the  same.  Why  should  I  have  to  waste  time  doing  work  any  un- 
trained, brainless  fool  could  do?  " 

Dora  smiled  at  us  in  a  deprecatory  way.  "  She  does  n't  really 
do  much  house-work,"  he  murmured.  "  It 's  absurd  to  ask  her  to 
do  it.  If  only  we  had  more  money.  I  'm  rottenly  paid.  Don't 
ever  tell  me  that  Socialism  is  a  paying  game.  And,  of  course, 
Tommy  can't  earn  any  money.  She  has  the  house  to  look  after 
while  I  'm  up  at  the  Hall.  She  used  to  teach  once,  but  it  was 
monotonous  work  for  a  girl  of  her  abilities.  And  you  could  n't 
get  in  the  front  door  for  dirt  and  muddle  .  .  .  Now,  what  exactly 


168  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

is  it  you  want?  I  'm  awfully  glad  to  see  you.  Kersent  should 
have  brought  you  before.  It 's  very  dull  for  Tommy  all  day,  with 
no  one  to  talk  to.  She  can't  make  friends  with  the  women  round 
here.  They  think  of  nothing  but  their  houses  and  babies.  Be- 
sides, they  don't  approve  of  us.  They  think  we  're  anarchists  or 
something." 

When  the  tea  was  made,  Tommy  carried  in  the  tray  and  set 
it  on  the  table.  She  brushed  some  of  the  papers  on  to  the  floor 
to  make  room  for  a  loaf  and  a  tin  of  protose. 

"  Help  yourselves,"  she  said,  and  thrust  a  knife  at  each  of  us. 
"  Come  on,  draw  up.  Sorry  there 's  no  butter,  but  Dora  forgot  to 
bring  any  home  yesterday.  Have  some  protose:  it 's  better  than 
butter." 

It  was  rather  rank,  but  we  tried  it. 

"You  don't  like  it,"  she  said.  "More  fools  you.  Have  a 
cigarette,  old  girl?  " 

"  You  must  n't  mind  Tommy's  want  of  manners,"  Dora  said 
proudly.  "She  calls  every  one  fool,  or  old  girl,  or  old  man, 
before  she 's  known  'em  five  minutes." 

"  If  they  don't  like  it,  they  can  lump  it,"  Tommy  said  calmly. 
"  I  can't  stand  your  sniffy  amateur  aristocrats.  I  'm  jolly  hungry, 
I  can  tell  you.  I  don't  know  whether  Dora  had  any  dinner,  but 
he  forgot  to  bring  me  any.  I  suppose  you  thought  I  could  snooze 
empty,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  bother  with  dinner,"  her  husband  said.  "  This  book 
has  got  to  go  back  to-night,  and  I  must  get  it  summarized.  You 
need  n't  grumble.  As  like  as  not,  when  I  come  home  to-morrow 
you  '11  have  forgotten  to  get  anything  ready." 

He  spoke  with  a  rather  ragged  complacence.  I  caught  the  echo 
of  an  obscure  resentment. 

After  tea,  he  made  an  effort  to  assert  himself  against  Tommy's 
aggressive  capture  of  the  talk.  He  was  an  unabashed  intellectual, 
very  anxious  to  make  it  clear  that  he  was  of  a  different  breed 
from  your  down-at  heel  fanatic.  He  had  a  wonderful  library  of 
Labor  and  anti-war  publications.  He  showed  us  a  pile  of  fat 
note-books  filled  with  summaries  of  these  books.  He  burrowed 
his  way  through  the  heavier  kind  of  socialist  literature,  and  threw 
up  notes  on  every  side,  cross-referenced,  and  dotted  with  news- 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  169 

paper  cuttings  .  .  .  There  was  a  bundle  of  cuttings  labelled  "  The 
Goldfinch  warbles." 

He  declared,  and  I  daresay  believed,  that  emotion  had  no 
place  in  his  scheme  of  life.  He  told  us,  lest  there  should  be  any 
doubt  of  the  icy  ruthlessness  of  his  intellect,  that  he  would  grieve 
for  no  dead  soldier.  "  I  would  n't  weep  for  my  dearest  friend  if 
he  'd  been  killed  in  a  war." 

"  Don't  think,"  he  said  eagerly,  "  that  I  'm  on  this  job  through 
any  illusions  about  the  nobility  of  mankind.  I  don't  slave  day  in 
and  day  out  for  a  lot  of  chicken-hearted  skunks,  but  for  an  Idea. 
The  human  race  is  a  disaster.  Ideas  are  the  only  vital  things." 

"  Half  a  minute,"  Tommy  said,  "  while  I  get  my  book  and  put 
that  down.  It 's  not  often  you  sparkle."  She  blew  smoke  rings 
at  him,  and  propped  one  foot  on  the  electric  bell.  "  Damn  thing 
does  n't  ring,"  she  remarked.  "  Like  everything  else  in  this  place. 
These  houses  are  n't  a  year  old  yet,  and  they  're  dropping  to  bits 
while  you  watch." 

"  Oh,  be  quiet  about  the  house,"  her  husband  said,  "  they  can 
see  what  it 's  like  without  your  telling  them." 

"  All  right,  old  boy.  Talk  on.  Don't  get  roused.  Tell  them 
what  a  wonder  you  are.  Kersent  's  heard  it  all  before.  He  '11 
talk  to  me." 

Kersent  smiled  absently,  and  crossed  one  leg  over  the  other. 
She  might  have  been  gambolling  round  his  feet. 

Dora  began  to  describe  his  I.L.P  activities.  He  made  great  play 
with  the  stupidities  of  his  colleagues,  working-men. 

"  Good  Lord,"  he  said,  "  if  you  could  fathom  the  abyss  of 
bigotry,  and  the  narrow-minded  cowardice  of  them.  It 's  enough 
to  make  a  man  give  it  all  up,  and  go  in  for  making  money." 

"Well,  why  don't  you?  "  his  wife  interrupted  airily.  "You 
slave  on  all  their  damned  committees  and  precious  little  thanks 
you  get  for  it.  Do  you  know,"  she  said  to  Margaret,  "  I  worked 
like  a  nigger  —  ask  Dora  if  I  did  n't  —  and  got  up  one  of  their 
socials,  ordered  food  and  organized  the  program,  and  never  as 
much  as  a  thank  you.  All  taken  for  granted,  as  if  you  were  born 
to  be  their  bell-boy.  It 's  not  good  enough." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  believe  that  both  of  them  got  considerable 
pleasure  out  of  the  endless  intrigues  that  weave  themselves  round 


170  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

the  local  I.L.P.  branches.  They  sat  up  o'  nights  taking  counsel 
how  to  get  on  to  committees,  and  be  mentioned  in  the  "  Beacon." 
Dora  showed  us  his  syllabus  of  lectures. 

**  I  lecture  to  them  twice  a  week,"  he  said.  "  It  would  n't  be 
worth  it  —  it 's  an  awful  fag  —  except  that  one  gets  known 
through  things  like  that.  I  shall  be  standing  for  the  Executive 
before  too  long,  I  think." 

He  had  dreams  of  the  House.  If  he  does  not  achieve  at  least 
that  ideal  and  become  a  member  of  the  permanent  opposition,  I 
shall  be  considerably  surprised,  for  he  is  a  born  politician,  with 
an  innate  aptitude  for  political  scheming.  To  be  sure,  he  talked 
largely  of  the  brotherhood  of  man,  and  flapped  his  wings  over 
the  pettiness  of  Labor  leaders.  But  I  do  not  think  that  he  will 
talk  in  the  House  of  international  brotherhood :  for  he  has  a  keen 
sense  of  what  is  fitting  and  expedient.  He  talked  of  it  to  us 
because  it  was  a  necessary  part  of  his  mental  stock-in-trade.  It 
was  the  largest  of  the  ideas  he  took  over  when  it  became  clear  to 
him  that  he  was  an  intellectual  with  a  mission.  Of  any  imagina- 
tive conception  of  the  phrase  he  had  not  a  particle.  It  may  be 
that  he  really  believes  it  will  be  accomplished  by  successive  tri- 
umphant resolutions  passed  in  socialist  conference.  His  political 
sense  did  not  carry  him  beyond  a  view  of  politics  as  a  continual 
wrangle  in  which  the  devil  took  the  least  cue.  I  could  never 
make  up  my  mind  whether  he  really  had  brought  himself  to  be- 
lieve it  possible  to  achieve  a  social  revolution  on  the  floor  of  the 
House,  or  whether  that  were  only  another  of  the  attitudes  he 
took  up  in  the  interests  of  his  career:  whether  on  this  point  he  were 
more  fool  than  knave. 

Tommy  interrupted  him  ruthlessly  at  short  intervals.  I  guessed 
that  her  brain  was  a  little  above  the  average,  but  not  within  hail- 
ing distance  of  her  ambition.  She  told  him  once  that  she  was  sick 
of  his  arrogance. 

"You  and  your  lectures,"  she  said.  "You  seem  to  think 
they  're  bound  to  be  good  because  you  wrote  them.  Men  are  like 
that.  I  reckon  I  'm  the  intellectual  equal  of  you  or  of  any  other 
man  I  know." 

She  came  back  once  or  twice  to  this  matter  of  her  intellectual 
equality.  I  daresay  she  had  half-conscious  doubts  of  it.  We 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  171 

soon  found  that  she  was  always  watching  for  slights,  especially 
from  the  men  she  knew.  She  rated  Dora  like  a  vixen  for  dis- 
puting her  authority  in  some  matter  of  literary  criticism.  If  she 
had  reflected  that  men  do  not  talk  to  each  other  of  their  intellec- 
tual equality,  she  would  have  refrained,  for  she  was  very  anxious 
to  be  credited  with  a  masculine  outlook.  To  this  end  were  her 
slangy  speech  and  off-hand  manners.  There  was  no  getting  away 
from  her  determination  to  be  a  sport  and  a  good  fellow. 

Dora  took  her  interruptions  placidly.  Whatever  inward  dis- 
taste he" felt  for  his  comfortless  house,  he  never  allowed  it  to  be- 
come articulate.  He  professed  great  pride  in  Tommy's  cleverness. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said.  "  We  're  comrades.  We  don't  pretend 
to  be  husband  and  wife.  We  only  got  married  because  this  silly 
world  puts  all  sort  of  obstacles  in  your  way  if  you  don't.  I  make 
no  claim  on  her,  nor  she  on  me." 

Oliver  asked  bluntly — "  Which  of  you  earns  the  money?  " 

"  He  does,"  Tommy  said  shrilly.  "  And  don't  I  wish  he  'd 
stay  at  home  and  let  me  go  out  and  earn  it.  Only  there 's  no 
market  for  your  brains  if  you  're  a  woman.  You  're  expected  to 
wash  pots  and  breed  children  and  shut  up.  Not  yours  truly." 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  claim  your  share  of  the  money?  " 

Tommy  stared.  "  Well,  don't  I  need  it  to  keep  the  house  go- 
ing? What  do  you  think  I  am?  A  penny-in-the-slot  meter?  As 
it  is,  we've  not  enough  money  to  do  more  than  keep  us  alive. 
Nothing  for  theaters  or  magazines,  or  music  or  decent  clothes. 
I  'm  absolutely  cut  off  from  things.  I  'm  supposed  to  find  all  my 
interests  and  spiritual  refreshment  in  him,  of  course." 

Perhaps  to  keep  her  quiet,  Dora  got  the  "  Beacon  "  and  read  us 
her  latest  warble.  It  was  very  smart  and  shrill.  We  protested 
our  admiration,  but  I  suppose  we  had  not  satisfied  her,  for  as  the 
front  door  closed  behind  us,  I  heard  her  say  — "  A  bit  sniffy,  eh?  " 

We  left  with  Dora's  promise  to  arrange  for  a  room  in  Hammer- 
smith. 

"  I  can  get  you  a  good  basement  there,"  he  said,  "  under  the 
shop  of  our  treasurer.  He  '11  let  you  have  it  every  night  a  week 
if  you  like,  for  something  purely  nominal.  He 's  got  a  great  idea 
of  me,  you  see.  The  local  temperance  people  had  it,  but  he  turned 
them  out  because  they  used  to  be  singing  when  he  was  trying  to 


172  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

balance  up  his  books,  and  it  put  him  off.  We  '11  come  and  help 
you.  Tommy  is  a  first-class  lecturer." 

We  made  our  way  to  Shepherd's  Bush,  and  climbed  an  east- 
bound  'bus. 

"  If  that  were  my  house,"  Oliver  said,  "  I  'd  take  a  fire-shovel 
to  that  female  but  I  'd  make  her  keep  it  clean.  What  on  earth 
does  she  do  with  herself?  She  doesn't  earn  money,  and  she 
doesn't  work." 

"  Housework  is  a  wearisome  business  unless  you  like  it,"  Mar- 
garet said.  "  And  that 's  a  rotten  life  for  educated  people." 

"  Which  is  the  educated?  "  Oliver  retorted.  "  She 's  not,  unless 
you  mean  that  she 's  wetted  the  tips  of  her  fingers  in  half  the  arts 
and  a  few  of  the  sciences.  But  she  does  n't  know  anything.  She 
imposes  on  that  poor  bruised  reed  by  repeating  his  reflections  in 
a  derisive  tone.  And  their  home  need  n't  be  so  sordid,  and  they 
need  n't  eat  pressed  grass.  By  God,  I  'd  teach  her  a  few  things." 

"  A  fire-shovel  is  an  excellent  text-book,"  Margaret  scoffed. 

"  Some  folk  will  learn  off  no  other,"  he  said,  "  and  she  's  one 
of  them." 

"  He  should  n't  have  married  a  girl  like  that,"  Kersent  said. 
"  She 's  no  wife  to  him.  In  his  way,  he  's  a  good  man.  I  mean 
that  he  took  a  brilliant  first  in  Physics.  But,  of  course,  he  '11  die 
of  overstrain  and  indigestion  before  he  's  forty.  It 's  silly  to  rave 
at  her  though,"  he  added  reflectively,  "  she 's  out  of  joint  with  the 
times.  There 's  plenty  of  women  like  her  —  fit  for  nothing, 
happy  in  nothing.  It 's  no  good  sneering  or  kicking  at  them. 
They  're  all  products  of  the  muddle.  Very  nearly  helpless  pro- 
ducts, too." 

There  followed  a  series  of  interviews  with  I.L.P  officials  and 
Trades  Union  secretaries.  We  found  the  latter  rather  tired,  har- 
assed men,  quite  willing  to  display  our  notices  and  talk  about 
us.  They  did  not,  of  course,  guarantee  the  tenor  of  their  report. 
We  heard  of  one  hefty  Irishman  who  addressed  his  fellow-workers 
thus  — "  There 's  some  bloody  intellectuals  taken  a  room  in  Ham- 
mersmith —  you  can  read  about  it  on  the  notice  board  —  for  the 
purpose  of  dispensing  book-learning  to  the  meek  and  humble. 
Mebbe  some  of  you  had  better  go  and  look  them  up,  if  it 's  only 
to  show  'em  that  they  don't  know  damn-all  about  everything." 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  173 

The  I.L.P.  suspected  us  first  of  bad  faith  towards  themselves, 
and  then  of  deliberate  benevolence.  "  You  can't  come  the  uplift- 
ing of  the  masses  over  us.  We  've  got  no  use  for  college  cranks. 
And  your  sort  never  did  as  much  good  as  harm.  What 's  a  uni- 
versity ever  done  for  a  working  man  but  turn  him  against  his 
class  and  ruin  him?  For  all  we  know,  that  may  be  your  idea. 
Thank  God,  we  're  past  being  dazzled  by  your  brassy  educations." 

Dora  dropped  a  few  remarks  in  our  favor,  but  he  was  afraid  of 
rousing  the  latent  prejudice  against  his  own  college  education. 
HoweWr,  we  got  the  room,  and  our  obscurity  disarmed  any  active 
prejudice.  I  remember  only  one  man  in  whom  indifference  or 
contempt  passed  into  real  resentment.  He  was  a  gray-haired, 
withered  little  man,  the  secretary  of  a  small  branch. 

"  Why  d  'you  want  to  go  setting  yourselves  up  for  stinking  mis- 
sionaries? "  he  said.  "Who  asked  you  to  offer  to  teach  us? 
Who  wanted  you?  Fine  use  we  shall  make  o'  your  sort  of 
learning.  It  would  be  better  for  you  to  come  and  learn  of  us. 
We  '11  teach  you  things  you  did  n't  know.  Only  maybe  you  don't 
want  to  soil  your  white  hands." 

"  You  '11  teach  me  nothing  of  poverty,"  I  said  fiercely.  "  Nor 
what  it  is  to  go  short  and  walk  bare-foot.  What  do  you  think  we 
are?  We  come  of  as  hard-working  stock  as  ever  you  did." 

I  stopped,  ashamed  of  myself. 

"  If  you  are  our  sort,"  he  retorted,  "  why  are  you  coming 
round  here,  talking  of  knowledge  and  education  and  lending 
books?  Lending  books!  Will  ye  lend  books  to  me  that  slaves 
till  I  'm  done,  and  starts  At  six  the  next  morning?  I  suppose  you 
think  I  'd  just  be  enjoying  a  read  of  your  books,  with  me  eyes  nicely 
rested  by  a  day's  work  and  me  mind  clear  and  bright  with  golf 
and  good  living?  Pah!  And  if  you  must  talk,  what 's  to  hinder 
ye  from  coming  to  an  I.L.P.  and  talking  there?  Face  us  on  our 
own  ground.  We  '11  listen  to  you.  We  '11  ask  you  a  question  or 
two.  Mebbe  it 's  that  you  're  afraid  of?  Anyhow,  here  's  a  plat- 
form. What 's  the  matter  with  it?  " 

We  explained  humbly  that  it  was  easier  for  us  to  have  a  place 
of  our  own  where  we  could  store  our  books,  and  come  every  night. 

"And  why  should  you  have  things  made  easy  for  you?  "  he 
said  resentfully. 


CHAPTER  IX 

IV /fc  had  decided  upon  a  biological  groundwork  in  our  lectures. 
VV  we  would  teach  biology  itself,  and  then  history,  psychology 
and  sociology,  all  from  the  same  view-point  of  man's  ascent  and 
his  place  in  the  scheme  of  nature.  And  then,  building  on  that,  we 
would  reach  the  lesson  that  gave  meaning  to  all  the  others,  and 
show  the  possibility  of  a  continued  ascent.  We  would  show  it  as 
not  only  possible  but  imperative  that  man  should  follow  the  path 
whereon  his  feet  were  set,  the  path  of  cooperation  and  mutual 
understanding.  I  was  resolved  not  to  let  Kersent  draw  us  into 
glossing  over  the  story  of  human  development 

But  whether  they  fitted  in  or  not,  we  were  determined  to  get 
in  classic  and  renaissance  sculpture,  painting,  poetry,  story- 
telling. Evening  classes  and  associations  were  giving  the  every- 
day fare  of  knowledge.  We  wanted  to  offer  the  rare  things,  the 
beautiful  things  that  are  unnecessary  because  they  have  no  money 
value,  and  supremely  necessary  because  their  value  is  beyond 
money.  "We'll  bring  the  old  heady  wine  into  a  basement  in 
Hammersmith,"  Oliver  said. 

"  In  cracked  goblets,"  Kersent  added. 

But,  of  course,  it  did  not  work  out  in  the  least  as  we  intended. 
From  the  very  first,  cracks  opened  between  our  plans  and  the 
manifest  intentions  of  the  men  who  should  have  been  our  docile 
listeners.  They  listened.  They  asked  questions.  They  read  our 
books,  and  wrote  critcisms  of  them,  but  neither  questions  nor  criti- 
cisms followed  the  expected  course.  Our  plan  got  twisted  out 
of  all  recognition.  We  pretended  to  revise  it,  saving  our  faces. 
We  found  ourselves  giving  an  undue  amount  of  time  to  biology, 
pure  and  simple,  and  neglecting  history  and  sociology  for  the 
sake  of  literature  and  art.  Margaret's  twelve  lectures  on  the 
Renaissance  led  to  demands  for  more.  She  had  to  give  another 
course  on  Florentine  history,  and  another  on  Rome.  In  the  end, 
hers  were  the  only  lectures  left  to  us  out  of  our  intentions.  Sun- 

174 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  175 

day  night  was  given  over  to  her:  she  stuck  to  what  she  called  the 
strictly  useless.  The  best  liked  lecture  of  all  was  also  the  most 
peculiarly  literary.  It  was  a  description  of  fourteenth  century 
Florence,  with  a  queer  inspired  beauty  for  which  we  prophesied 
disaster:  our  snobbishness  had  its  punishment  in  the  triumph 
achieved. 

We  began  in  the  January  of  1913,  and  at  the  end  of  April  were 
overflowing  into  three  other  rooms  in  the  same  street.  During 
the  first  weeks,  we  had  a  shifting  crowd  of  students,  friends  of 
Kersent,  men  from  the  local  I.L.P.  branches,  men  from  Trades 
Unions,  boys  just  left  school,  and  old  tired  men.  We  had  meant 
to  attract  boys  and  men  who  had  been  studying  alone,  and  most 
of  those  who  came  to  us  did  indeed  come  for  help  in  subjects  al- 
ready familiar  to  them. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  regular  students  emerged  from  the 
crowd.  We  started  a  formal  enrolment.  We  charged  threepence 
a  month.  Each  man  chose  the  subject  in  which  he  desired  tui- 
tion —  we  stuck  to  the  phraseology  of  the  colleges  —  and  pledged 
himself  to  attend  on  the  evenings  given  up  to  that  study.  We  set 
no  limit:  a  man  might  enroll  himself  for  every  night  a  week. 
We  lent  books,  and  pestered  our  friends  for  cheap  editions.  Once 
we  took  up  a  subscription  at  King's,  and  gathered  between  ten  and 
eleven  pounds  for  the  purchase  of  books,  but  we  shrank  from  the 
notoriety  involved  in  that  method  of  getting  money. 

We  started  the  idea  of  having  one  lecture  a  week  given  by  a 
student.  Men  volunteered  for  this.  They  talked  about  the  things 
they  knew  best,  their  work,  their  life,  their  views  on  education 
and  politics.  I  have  wished  many  times  that  some  record  had 
been  kept  of  these  lectures.  Of  all  the  things  that  we  did  and 
tried  to  do  during  that  busy  year  and  a  half,  I  am  proudest  of 
the  lectures  we  did  not  give  but  only  called  forth. 

I  cannot  possibly  tell  the  story  of  these  months.  They  were 
very  hard-working  months.  Oliver  and  Anthony  were  in  their 
Final  year,  and  the  bulk  of  the  work  had  to  be  done  by  Margaret 
and  by  me.  Kersent  was  small  use  outside  his  own  subject.  Mar- 
garet worked  up  to  the  limit  of  her  strength,  but  practically  all 
the  drudgery  and  hackwork  of  the  thing  fell  upon  me.  I  have 
gone  a  fortnight  on  less  than  two  hours'  sleep  a  night, 


176  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

Inevitably,  we  had  to  get  through  days  and  weeks  when  our 
work  seemed  a  useless  waste  of  strength  and  time.  We  felt  that 
we  were  making  fools  of  ourselves,  doing  nothing  in  llie  least 
commensurate  with  the  strain  entailed.  If  we  gave  up,  it  would 
not  make  any  difference  in  the  inevitable  march  of  events.  We 
had  even  to  meet  and  conquer  the  insidious  fear  that  we  might, 
after  all,  be  setting  ourselves  up  for  "  stinking  missionaries."  I 
can  feel  now  the  black  depression  against  which  we  struggled, 
more  than  half  due  to  bodily  exhaustion  and  our  lack  of  proper 
food  and  sleep. 

Incidents  and  memories  crowd  back  on  me.  For  a  short  time 
we  were  afflicted  by  a  group  of  young  men  from  some  college  of 
London  University,  who  came  and  made  speeches  under  the  pre- 
tense of  asking  questions.  I  remember  Chamberlayn's  lecture  on 
the  building  of  bridges.  He  was  desperately  nervous,  and  began 
to  clear  his  throat.  "  Haw,"  he  said,  and  shortly  — "  Haw."  The 
audience  first  smiled  and  then  laughed  aloud.  Chamberlayn  was 
very  angry.  He  thumped  on  the  table. 

"Do  you  want  to  hear  about  the  things  or  don't  you?  "  he 
shouted.  "  If  any  one  here  thinks  he  knows  more  about  it  than  I 
do,  let  him  come  up  and  tell  it:  I  '11  be  glad  to  listen." 

They  cheered  him  at  that,  and  he  began  quite  happily.  I  do 
not  remember  a  lecture  that  was  listened  to  in  greater  silence. 
He  was  full  of  his  subject:  his  eyes  shone  with  the  romance  that 
he  imagined  in  it,  and  at  the  end,  when  he  tried  to  give  honor 
to  the  toiling  obscure  workers  who  wrought  other  men's  ideas  in 
the  labor  of  their  hands,  he  stumbled  on  an  eloquence  we  would 
not  have  believed  possible  in  him.  I  can  see  now  the  brown  hands 
resting  on  the  table,  and  the  tall,  lithe  body  bent  forward  in 
his  eagerness. 

I  remember  very  little  active  unpleasantness,  and  what  there  was 
arose  among  people  who  came  to  us  with  mistaken  notions  about 
our  work.  For  a  few  weeks  a  youth  from  Dora's  own  I.L.P 
branch  tried  hard  to  drag  our  center  of  gravity  into  politics. 
He  would  get  up  at  the  end  of  a  class  in  biology  and  ask  bitterly 
what  damned  good  was  all  this  to  a  working-man.  We  tried  pa- 
tience and  humility.  We  took  him  aside  and  explained  as  man 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  177 

to  man  that  he  would  not  find  in  the  whole  register  of  students 
one  who  was  not,  in  the  narrowest  sense  of  the  words,  a  working- 
man,  and  that  the  classes  were  arranged  to  their  requests.  When 
our  patience  wore  thin,  we  took  to  plain  speaking. 

"  If  they  want  your  thimblerigging  Labor  politics  they  know 
where  to  go  for  them,"  I  said.  "  But  they  don't  come  here  for 
that.  They  come  here  to  learn  about  the  things  they  can't  learn 
anywhere  else.  We  're  not  an  auxiliary  I.L.P." 

"  Any  one  can  see  that,"  he  said  scornfully.  "  The  feeblest 
LL.P/branch  would  n't  waste  its  time  on  the  useless  rubbish  you 
ask  us  to." 

"  We  don't  ask  you,"  I  retorted.  "  You  came  of  your  own  ac- 
cord, and  you  can  go  as  soon  as  you  like.  The  useless  rubbish  is 
what  the  rest  of  the  men  want.  Why  the  devil  should  you  set 
yourself  up  to  tell  them  what  they  want?  And  for  what  must 
they  always  keep  their  noses  glued  to  the  useful?  That's  what 
makes  the  difference  between  you  and  the  rich  fortunate  ones. 
They  have  the  sense  to  know  the  value  of  the  useless  things,  as  well 
as  their  beauty.  You  don't  even  understand  the  things  you  are 
pleased  to  call  the  useful.  How  should  you,  always  up  to  your 
neck  in  them?  "  I  was  irritated  and  irritable  from  overwork,  and 
I  found  it  hard  to  keep  on  this  side  a  decent  show  of  resentment. 
"You  know  Dawson,  the  docker?"  I  said,  struggling  for  self- 
control.  "  Of  course  you  do,  he  's  a  member  of  your  own  branch. 
Well,  he  and  Forbes  —  Forbes  is  at  the  docks  too  —  came  to  me 
last  week  and  asked  if  they  could  be  lent  books  on  Egypt.  I 
thought  they  meant  Bernard  Shaw  and  the  Denshawai  incident, 
but  it  turned  out  that  they  meant  Ancient  Egypt,  the  Pharaohs  and 
the  Pyramids.  They  're  deep  in  Moret  and  Wallis  Budge  at  this 
minute." 

"  More  fools  they,"  said  he.     He  had  what  is  called  horse  sense. 

He  had  read  Marx,  and  believed  in  the  Marxian  infallibility 
as  earnestly  as  ever  a  Catholic  in  the  Pope's.  He  was  full  of 
schemes  for  getting  himself  on  to  Divisional  Councils  and  the 
like  queer  bodies,  and  keeping  other  people  off.  He  kept  bringing 
me  little  pamphlets  to  read,  until  I  got  to  loathe  the  sight  of  their 
cheap  grayish  paper  and  close  print.  I  lost  my  temper  altogether. 


178  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

"  Damn  it,  man,"  I  shouted,  "  do  you  think  I  have  nothing  to 
do  but  suck  up  your  filthy,  concentrated  —  pap?  Take  'em  away. 
I  haven't  time.  I  haven't  patience." 

My  head  ached  and  my  eyes  burned.  He  smiled  at  me  with 
round  malicious  eyes.  All  the  angles  of  his  undergrown  little 
body  expressed  delight  in  my  annoyance.  The  blood  rushed  to 
my  head:  I  wanted,  insanely,  to  jump  upon  his  face  in  heavy 
boots. 

"  You  don't  care  really  for  the  interests  of  the  working-classes," 
he  said. 

"  Well  then,  I  don't,"  I  answered.  "  If  it  means  coming  out  in 
a  perfect  eruption  of  irritating  tracts,  I  don't.  I  don't  care  a 
damn  what  happens  to  you  and  your  kind.  Now  go  away.  For 
goodness'  sake  go  away." 

He  went,  perfectly  satisfied  at  having  penetrated  to  my 
treachery. 

Of  course,  I  was  ashamed  and  horror-stricken  afterwards.  I 
could  not  account  to  myself  for  the  amazing  irritability  that  pos- 
sessed me  during  these  days.  I  would  have  sought  out  the  little 
man  and  begged  his  pardon,  if  that  would  have  been  anything 
but  a  self-indulgence.  He  had  had  such  a  mean,  cramped  life. 
What  could  I  have  been  about  to  sneer  at  his  pamphlets?  I  might 
as  honorably  have  sneered  at  a  cripple's  crutch. 

'*  I  have  let  loose  on  him  the  resentment  I  ought  to  have  kept 
for  the  men  who  made  him  what  he  is,"  I  cried.  "  The  pot-bel- 
lied, club-reared  fools  who  don't  even  read  pamphlets,  whose 
brains  are  lower  than  his,  because  they  're  not  even  trying  to 
reach  out.  I  behaved  to  him  as  they  would  have  done.  He  has 
every  right  to  look  down  on  me.  I  'm  not  so  good  a  man  as  he  is." 

"  Joy,"  Margaret  said  gravely,  "  you  '11  come  a  real  break-down 
one  of  these  days  if  you  don't  give  yourself  a  rest.  You  know 
you  're  talking  the  most  utter  rubbish.  There  's  no  question  of 
looking  down  on  any  one.  The  man  was  in  the  wrong  all  the 
time.  He  wanted  us  to  be  quite  different  from  the  people  he 
found  us.  He  had  to  be  sent  away." 

"Am  I  a  fool,  Margaret?  " 

"  An  incorrigible  fool,"  she  said  softly.  She  stopped,  and  the 
color  flamed  in  her  cheeks.  We  looked  at  each  other  so  for  a 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  179 

minute.     Something  stirred  in  my  mind,  stirred  and  left  me 
half-aware  .  .  . 

Then  there  were  the  two  Christians.  They  wrote  to  us  before 
coming  to  Hammersmith.  "Dear  friends  —  We  have  heard  of 
your  work,  and  feel  that  it  has  been  laid  upon  us  to  help  you. 
We  do  not  know  what  you  require,  but  what  you  ask,  that  will 
we  do.  We  believe  that  your  work  has  no  religious  bias.  We  are 
simply  Christians." 

No  *ch>ubt  they  believed  themselves  to  be  just  that.  But  how 
they  hated  Christ! 

They  had  to  conceal  it  from  themselves  by  glossing  over  all 
the  incidents  in  His  life  that  revolted  them.  They  must  have 
had  some  dreadful  moments.  I  caught  a  glimpse  once  of  the 
hidden  conflict.  The  man  was  talking  to  Kersent,  and  I  sat  be- 
hind them,  reading  over  essays. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  he  urged  softly,  "  you  cannot  think  that  the 
rubbing  of  the  ears  of  corn  was  meant  to  justify  sabbath  breaking. 
It  was  merely  symbolic.  It  was  directed  against  the  papish  prac- 
tice of  fasts.  His  eye  foresaw  the  Romish  heresy.  Man  must 
eat,  even  on  the  Lord's  day.  Our  Lord  condemned  the  devilish 
practice  of  the  Babylonian  whore." 

He  was  convinced  that  Jesus  could  not  have  been  other  than 
a  sound  temperance  man.  The  marriage  feast  at  Cana  annoyed 
him.  He  seemed  to  feel,  firstly,  that  the  water  had  not  been 
turned  into  wine,  but  into  some  herbal  effusion;  and  secondly,  that 
it  had,  on  the  whole,  been  rather  silly  of  Jesus. 

I  looked  up  as  he  was  talking  to  Kersent,  and  for  a  brief  mo- 
ment saw  in  his  eyes  a  gleam  that  was  certainly  not  the  light  of 
reverence.  It  was  more  like  resentment  and  a  dull,  aching  dis- 
like. There  was  so  much  in  Christ  of  which  he  could  not  approve. 
He  wrestled  with  Him  in  secret,  abused  and  argued  with  Him. 
Outwardly  nothing  appeared  but  an  over-warm,  simmering  love: 
doubtless  he  was  conscious  of  nothing  else. 

At  times  he  wallowed  in  religious  emotion.  "  I  have  given 
myself  to  Christ,"  he  told  us,  with  an  ungainly  wriggle  of  his 
body.  He  was  ecstatic  as  other  men  are  drunk,  and  with  much 
the  same  intellectual  enfeeblement.  There  is  no  more  hopeless 
bigot  than  the  emotional  one. 


180  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

His  wife  was  altogether  harder  and  brighter.  She  was  consci- 
entious to  the  point  at  which  conscience  becomes  a  vice  to  be  in- 
dulged at  the  expense  of  the  community.  She  ran  one  of  those 
houses  where  erring  women  are  punished  by  the  charity  of  the 
more  wary  or  more  fortunate.  She  had  always  a  scared,  cringing 
girl  with  her  as  her  maid,  a  brand  plucked  from  the  burning  and 
quenched  viciously.  Christ  simply  had  not  a  chance  with  her. 
She  would  have  made  short  work  of  His  sentimentalizing  over 
strumpets  and  sinners.  She  despised  Him  in  her  heart,  but  he 
made  a  good  jack-o'-lantern  to  frighten  the  timid,  so  she  had  Him 
truss  up  His  points  and  come  down  like  a  flail  on  the  ungodly. 

"  She  hath  the  itch,"  Kersent  said,  "  the  moral  itch."  She  had 
indeed  a  selection  of  tales  that  in  a  different  dress  would  have 
shocked  a  smoke-room.  Nothing  vicious  missed  her  glance.  The 
poets  were  degraded:  Shakespeare  should  have  been  burned  by 
the  common  hangman.  The  Rokeby  Venus  deserved  its  slashing 
for  its  indecency. 

The  woman  soon  left  us,  but  the  man  clung  to  us  like  a  bur. 
We  could  not  use  him  as  a  tutor,  and  it  was  simply  ridiculous  to 
regard  him  as  a  student.  He  sat  at  the  back  of  the  room,  and 
afterwards  came  to  us  with  urgent  deprecatory  whispers.  He  in- 
sisted upon  telling  us  all  about  his  private  life.  God  forbid  that 
I  should  accuse  the  pair  of  ungodly  lusts.  They  were  united  in  the 
most  delicate  and  refined  tie.  But  if  ever  I  met  unrestrained,  rav- 
ening wickedness  of  the  flesh  it  was  in  that  man's  vicarious 
caresses.  He  talked  about  his  wife  and  their  holy  partnership 
as  mystics  tell  of  the  Divine  Bridegroom,  or  starving  men  reflect 
on  roast  sucking  pig. 

We  had  at  last  to  tell  him  that  as  he  was  not  a  working-man, 
we  could  not  enroll  him  with  the  other  students.  After  that, 
he  haunted  us  reproachfully  in  Herne  Hill,  poking  his  lean  face 
round  the  door  with  a  gentle — "  Do  I  intrude?  " 

He  did  —  most  damnably.  He  affected  with  Margaret  an  exag- 
gerated impressive  manner.  I  believe  he  regarded  her  presence 
in  our  rooms  with  a  delightful  horror.  He  came  there  to  rub  his 
hands  over  it  in  secret.  After  a  while,  he  ceased  to  intrude,  and  we 
did  not  see  either  of  them  for  several  months. 

We  had  great  trouble  with  an  odd  anarchist  named  Darley. 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  181 

It  was  not  personal  trouble,  for  he  was  a  charming  old  creature 
with  a  passion  for  first  editions.  But  he  had  a  thunderous  voice, 
and  burst  upon  our  classes  with  furious  orations  on  the  need  for 
personal  liberty.  There  was  not  a  single  thing  that  he  did  not 
bring  back  to  this  question  of  liberty.  He  had  once  written  a 
poem.  It  began :  — 

"  Oh,  Liberty,  thy  wings  are  molting  now, 
Thy  feathers  strew  the  lofty  Caucasus." 

This  he  read  aloud  several  times,  without  any  provocation,  on 
the  ground,  I  suppose,  that  he  was  at  liberty  to  do  so.  We  got  rid 
of  him  at  last,  but  not  before  he  had  called  Kersent  a  black-hearted 
caterpillar,  smearing  and  sliming  the  most  precious  things  of 
the  spirit  with  his  vile  communistic  leanings. 

I  have  met  many  anarchists  but  never  one  who  doubted  but 
liberty  meant  that  a  man  may  make  himself  any  kind  of  an 
aggressive  nuisance  so  long  as  he  do  it  in  the  service  of  an  Ideal. 
How  is  it,  I  wonder,  that  an  Ideal  has  so  often  such  a  scurvy,  loud- 
voiced,  domineering  train  of  servants? 

We  lost  the  help  of  Dora  and  Tommy  in  less  than  four  months. 
Tommy  lectured  for  us  once  or  twice  on  German  literature.  She 
had,  we  found,  a  quite  considerable  ability  to  heap  up  an  untidy 
mass  of  facts,  but  not  the  least  grasp  of  their  significance  or  power 
to  coordinate  them.  And  yet  she  was,  even  at  that  time,  attaining 
a  reputation  in  the  outskirts  of  journalism.  Nowadays  you  can 
hardly  pick  up  a  newspaper  or  magazine  of  a  certain  type  with- 
out finding  in  it  one  of  her  thin,  irritating  articles,  running  like 
venomous  little  spiders  over  half  the  topics  of  the  day.  I  cannot 
account  for  it,  except  on  the  supposition  that  a  mediocre  intellect 
may  make  a  good  show  if  it  is  employed  in  an  unusual  or  un- 
popular cause. 

We  differed  with  them  first  over  the  philosophic  basis  of  our 
work.  Dora  was  as  reverent  of  Reason  as  an  eighteenth  century 
poetaster,  and  he  got  very  acrimonious  when  I  refused  to  give  up 
my  biology  classes  for  classes  in  the  political  economy  of  the 
I.L.P. 

Then  later,  both  Dora  and  Tommy  were  seriously  annoyed 
because  we  would  not  allow  them  to  turn  their  work  for  us  to 


182  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

their  advantage.  They  wanted  to  talk  about  themselves  in  con- 
nection with  it.  We  were  not  only  dead  set  against  any  such 
advertising  of  our  schemes,  but  determined  that  they  should  not 
potter  round  a  little,  pretending  to  work  for  us,  and  then  go 
away  to  boast  about  it.  I  told  them  at  last  quite  frankly  what  I 
thought  about  their  intentions. 

"  If  you  will  help  us,  we  shall  be  most  uncommonly  grateful," 
I  said,  "  for  we  're  sadly  in  need  of  help.  We  're  over-taxed. 
But  you  must  understand  that  we  can't  let  you  talk  about  what 
you  do  here.  We  're  not  running  that  sort  of  thing  at  all." 

Tommy  flung  herself  back  in  a  chair,  and  kicked  her  high  heels 
on  the  ground.  I  tried  not  to  notice  that  the  front  of  her  dress 
was  covered  with  spots  of  grease  and  gaping  at  the  waist.  Dora 
must  have  had  a  hot  dinner  that  day. 

"  Oho,"  she  said,  "  we  're  the  modest  violet,  are  we?  Well,  it 's 
not  good  enough  for  me.  No  good  works  in  secret  for  your  hum- 
ble. I  've  seen  too  much  of  the  world  for  that.  There 's  precious 
little  credit  going  about  in  this  life  for  any  one,  but  what  little  I 
earn,  I  intend  to  have.  I  might  as  well  tell  you  that  straight  out. 
I  'm  not  one  to  beat  about  the  bush,  whatever  else  I  may  be." 

Her  husband  was  not  so  frank.  He  regarded  us  gravely.  "  If 
it 's  help  you  want,"  he  said,  "  you  simply  must  talk  about  your- 
selves, or  let  others  talk  about  you." 

"  It 's  not  that  sort  of  help  we  want,"  I  explained. 

He  had  the  air  of  a  man  who  is  determined  not  to  be  fooled. 
He  suspected  us  of  some  subtle  duplicity. 

"Well,  I  don't  understand  what  you  do  want,"  he  said  slowly. 
"You  're  not  trying  on  any  good-by-stealth  game,  are  you?  " 

He  puzzled  over  us. 

After  our  final  break  with  them,  Tommy  wrote  an  allusive  at- 
tack upon  us  in  the  "  Beacon."  We  were  referred  to  sarcastically 
as  the  gray  brethren  who  work  by  night.  It  was  suggested  that 
we  were  working  cunningly  to  an  end,  doubtless  political.  All 
this  work  of  ours  was  a  preliminary  to  vote-catching.  The  com- 
rades were  warned  not  to  be  taken  in  by  our  crude  methods.  It 
was  a  most  acrid  article,  but  we  were  by  this  time  well  enough 
established  in  our  little  way  to  be  proof  against  such  things. 

As  time  went  on,  we  became  gradually  a  kind  of  bureau.     We 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  183 

drew  up  courses  of  study  for  men,  and  told  them  what  books  to 
read.  We  hunted  up  information  in  newspaper  files  or  original 
documents  at  the  British  Museum.  We  never  refused  help  how- 
ever trivial  the  subject.  We  made  a  rule  that  men  might,  without 
enrolling  themselves,  come  to  two  lectures  or  classes,  as  friends  of 
a  regular  student.  In  that  way,  we  were  approached  several  times 
by  men  who  had  for  years  been  studying  some  subject  and  wanted 
help  on  a  particular  point.  Often  they  came  full  of  suspicion, 
prepared  to  stand  on  their  dignity  as  experts.  I  like  to  think  that 
in  every  instance  we  disarmed  them  by  our  pleasure  in  talking 
to  them,  and  our  eagerness  to  be  of  use.  Sometimes  we  captured 
them  for  our  Saturday  evening  classes. 

Our  work  divided  itself,  roughly,  into  three  departments. 
There  were  the  men  who  came,  wanting  nothing  more  than  to  hear 
about  things,  strange  things,  new  things,  anything  unconnected 
with  their  routine  life.  They  were  too  tired  to  try  any  inde- 
pendent study. 

We  left  this  side  of  the  work  to  Margaret.  She  not  only  lec- 
tured herself,  but  went  boldly  to  demand  lectures  from  experts. 
She  used  to  go  with  burning  cheeks  and  limbs  shaking  with  nerv- 
ousness. She  never  met  with  but  one  refusal.  But  she  suffered 
such  agonies  in  apprehension  of  a  rebuff  that  we  begged  her  to  let 
one  of  us  go  in  her  place.  Always  she  shook  her  head. 

"  I  have  a  better  chance  of  success  than  you.  It 's  what 's  called 
underhand  influence  of  sex." 

She  made  a  grimace,  and  smiled  at  us,  and  went  off  in  all  her 
slim,  trembling  courage  to  ask  a  man  with  half  the  alphabet  after 
his  name  to  come  to  an  obscure  room  in  Hammersmith,  and  tell 
work-worn  men  the  tale  of  his  adventures  in  a  South  American 
forest.  Or  it  might  be  a  Dante  scholar,  or  an  English-speaking 
Russian  revolutionist. 

Then  there  were  the  men  and  boys  who  wanted  real  tuition. 
We  were  always  trying  to  work  this  side  of  our  work  up  to  uni- 
versity standards.  This  was  not,  of  course,  easy  to  do.  We  had 
to  supplement  our  classes  by  private  tutoring  to  special  students. 

Then  came  the  bureau  side  of  our  work.  This  grew  larger  and 
larger,  overflowing  into  all  the  other  sides.  We  enlisted  the  help 
of  a  few  King's  men,  but  the  strain  became  almost  unbearable. 


184  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

We  had  so  far  limited  our  classes  only  by  the  space  in  our  use. 
We  began  to  think  of  cutting  down  the  numbers.  Then  we 
thought  of  taking  a  larger  place  altogether  and  asking  Margaret's 
uncle  for  funds  to  arrange  things  in  a  way  that  would  relieve  us 
of  a  little  of  the  work. 

And  yet,  you  know,  for  all  we  worked  day  and  night,  even  be- 
yond our  strength,  to  fit  our  own  studies  with  our  voluntary  task, 
we  accomplished  so  pitifully  little.  At  the  very  most  we  had 
eighty  or  a  hundred  regular  students  on  our  roll,  and  I  suppose 
that  in  the  whole  eighteen  months  before  we  had  to  give  things 
up,  we  reached  and  helped  not  more  than  three  hundred  men. 
Three  hundred! 

And  all  the  time  I,  at  least,  was  struggling  against  an  un- 
defined dissatisfaction.  The  smallness  of  our  achievement  made 
the  effort  seem  ludicrous.  We  were  painfully  conscious  of  its 
latent  absurdity.  We  spoke  of  our  work,  when  we  had  to  speak  of 
it  at  all,  in  an  off-hand,  allusive  fashion.  And  then  we  were 
ashamed  of  that  too,  and  reproached  ourselves  for  belittling  the 
men  who  were  so  anxious  to  learn  that  they  would  learn  in  a  base- 
ment of  a  handful  of  students. 

We  tried  to  steer  a  middle  way  between  an  affectation  of  in- 
difference — "  just  an  amusement  of  ours,  you  know,  so  original  " 
—  and  a  detestable  boastfulness.  We  worked  furtively,  afraid 
alike  of  ridicule  and  unmerited  praise. 

I  know  now  that  my  dissatisfaction  rose  from  the  unrealized 
knowledge  that  there  was  work  nearer  my  hand.  Any  man, 
with  the  scholarship  and  the  wish,  could  do  the  work  we  tried  to 
do,  but  not  many  could  reach  the  independent  dalesfolk  whose 
power  for  good  or  evil  in  the  coming  change  is  neither  reckoned 
nor  understood. 

We  learned  a  good  deal  more  than  we  taught  in  Hammersmith. 
At  some  things  we  could  only  guess. 

I  believe  that  there  exists  in  the  intellect  of  the  working  class 
a  vigor  and  freshness  that  may  well  bring  forth  a  new  Renais- 
sance. For  generations  crushed  under  the  industrial  slavery,  I 
believe  that  it  will  move  when  it  does  move,  with  a  mighty  bound. 
Reflect  that  it  has  no  academic  shackles  to  burst.  No  spectacled 
generations  tread  it  down.  The  world  is  new  to  it  —  a  world  as 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  185 

full  of  blossom  and  fresh  stir  of  life  as  ever  set  men's  feet  wan- 
dering in  unknown  lands,  and  their  throats  swelling  with  the 
songs  of  a  world  at  Spring.  A  world  crying  out  for  a  new  mind 
to  understand  it,  a  new  heart  to  fashion  it.  We  saw  that  mind 
rousing  itself  from  long  sleep  in  the  men  who  came  to  us  during 
those  feverish  days.  We  saw,  in  glimpses,  an  intellect  that  will 
make  short  work  of  classic  and  modern  controversies,  and  all 
such  efforts  of  a  worn-out  mind,  trying  nervously  to  make  things 
as  easy  for  itself  as  possible.  The  awakening  giant  will  take  these 
things  in  his  stride.  Yes:  we  learned  much. 

And  since  we  did  not  go  into  that  work  for  the  sake  of  saving 
our  own  dirty  little  souls,  how  should  we  be  able  to  reckon  any- 
thing that  we  did  then  to  our  credit? 

Days  and  nights  pass  behind  my  eyes,  from  the  days  when  we 
shivered  and  froze  in  the  unwarmed  cellar  to  the  days  when  we 
could  not  get  a  breath  of  air  between  its  four  dark  walls. 

I  step  out  of  the  underground  station  at  Hammersmith  into  the 
vortex  of  converging  streets.  Margaret,  rather  white  and  droop- 
ing in  her  thin  frock,  hurries  beside  me  across  the  road.  We 
reach  the  house  and  pass  behind  the  shop  to  the  basement  stair- 
case. Oliver  and  Kersent  have  gone  further  up  the  street  to  the 
rooms  where  the  less  advanced  students  are  already  at  work.  We 
stand  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  a  man  touches  me  on  the 
shoulder. 

"  I  'm  so  glad  you  've  come  in  good  time,"  he  said.  "  There  's 
something  been  worrying  me  for  three  days  in  this  variability  of 
species  business.  I  wanted  to  see  you  about  it  before  the  others 
came." 

I  begin  rather  nervously  to  tackle  the  question.  Young  Donnel 
has  something  approaching  a  biological  genius,  and  I  am  afraid 
of  not  being  able  to  teach  him  properly.  He  was,  I  remember 
now,  in  my  own  battalion  when  we  first  went  out.  I  lost  sight  of 
him  afterwards.  He  may  be  dead,  the  questioning  brain  still  and 
trodden  into  the  earth. 

Sometimes,  when  our  work  was  over  for  the  night,  Margaret 
and  I  found  our  way  down  to  the  river.  It  would  be  cool  then. 

The  buildings  behind  us  blotted  out  the  glare  and  rush  of  Ham- 
mersmith. Just  below  our  feet  the  river  went  darkly  to  the  sea. 


186  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

We  wished  to  follow  it.  At  how  many  little  boats  and  flat  barges 
should  we  not  have  tugged  in  our  swift  hurrying!  Past  the  de- 
cent, stately  Government  buildings,  past  the  furtive  sleepers  on 
the  seats,  past  the  ends  of  narrow  streets  still  echoing  and  flur- 
ried with  the  tread  of  the  day's  feet,  past  empty  hives  of  trading 
houses,  past  the  barns  and  storing-houses  of  the  world,  past  docks 
where  the  great  ships  waited  in  the  darkness  beside  wooden 
quays,  past  gray  flats  of  mud  and  scattered  houses  with  one 
bright  eye  winking  across  sad  fields  to  the  heedless  river,  past  all 
the  stress  of  little  lives,  all  the  restless  pressure  of  little  brains 
throbbing  with  schemes  that  have  walled  the  river  with  stone  and 
scarred  it  with  keels  and  bridges,  past  them  all  to  the  waiting  sea. 
We  were  two  specks  of  life,  caught  between  sky  and  sea,  caught 
and  forgotten  with  our  futile  longings.  We  cried  out  in  secret  for 
the  quiet  roads,  and  the  hollows  of  the  hills,  and  the  sweet  breath 
of  the  northwest  wind. 

During  those  warm,  stifling  days  in  the  early  summer  of  1913, 
when  we  were  just  beginning  to  feel  the  real  burden  of  the  work 
we  had  undertaken,  my  personal  life  was  tangling  itself  into  a  sore 
perplexity.  Between  the  two,  I  must  often  have  gone  nearer  mad- 
ness than  any  decent  biologist  should. 


CHAPTER  X 

ON  an  afternoon  in  late  Spring,  Margaret  and  I  went  to  Kew. 
Oliver  would  not  come  with  us,  but  I  was  tired  out  under  the 
strain  of  our  double  work.  I  felt  that  I  must  get  away  from  it, 
if  only  for  an  afternoon.  We  walked  slowly  across  the  gardens 
and  reached  a  narrow  path  between  tall  trees.  Sitting  in  the 
warm  green  light,  we  talked,  and  then  forgot  to  talk.  Margaret 
lay  back  with  half -closed  eyes.  Abruptly,  there  were  shouts  and 
a  curious  muffled  clatter.  A  huge  young  cart  horse,  come  from 
God  knows  where,  appeared  at  the  top  of  the  path  and  tore  down 
upon  us.  I  leaped  to  my  feet  and  dragged  Margaret  out  of  the 
way  with  hardly  an  inch  between  her  and  death  or  horrible  injury. 
The  mad  creature  turned  at  the  end  of  the  path,  and  swung  across 
the  open  grass.  It  was  crazy  with  fear.  I  believe  it  lamed  itself 
in  the  end,  and  had  to  be  shot. 

I  forgot  it  on  the  instant.  I  held  Margaret  in  my  arms,  sooth- 
ing her,  kissing  her,  calling  on  her  like  a  fool  to  answer  me  ... 

Followed  days  of  harassed  uncertainties.  Margaret  avoided 
me.  I  worked  myself  up  into  a  querulous  rage.  I  wanted  to  have 
things  settled,  to  know  where  we  stood.  I  could  not  get  a  word 
with  her.  At  last  I  hit  upon  the  absurd  plan  of  writing  a  letter. 
"  If  you  won't  give  me  a  chance  to  speak  to  you,  I  '11  make  a  scene 
before  the  rest,"  I  wrote.  "  I  must  talk  to  you.  This  is  absurd." 
I  went  out  and  posted  the  letter  with  a  sense  of  having  been  very 
decisive  and  resourceful.  I  watched  her  across  the  breakfast 
table  as  she  read  it.  She  moved  her  head  restlessly,  as  if  shaking 
off  a  burden.  I  was  full  of  remorse  and  a  sense  of  my  blunder- 
ing. 

We  entered  upon  days  and  days  of  inconsequent  discussion. 
We  lost  all  sense  of  humor  and  behaved  like  psychological  novel- 
ists. For  a  while  I  held  to  my  purpose.  I  wanted  Margaret.  I 
did  not  see  that  any  scruple  could  be  strong  enough  to  separate  us 
if  she  cared  at  all.  I  reproached  her. 

187 


188  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

"  You  're  spoiling  my  life  and  yours  for  the  sake  of  a  promise, 
a  convention.  Would  Keith  want  you  if  he  knew?  " 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  he  should  know,"  she  said.  "  You 
don't  understand.  It 's  not  the  promise.  It 's  the  things  I  feel. 
I  should  n't  be  happy.  I  'm  as  much  bound  to  him  as  if  we  were 
—  married.  I've  been  his.  I  am  his.  I  can't  just  walk  away 
and  leave  it  all  behind  —  repudiate  it  —  pretend  I  'm  free  as  I 
was  before  .  .  ." 

"  You  are  free.     You  know  you  are  free." 

"  I  don't  feel  free.  Try  and  understand.  I  can't  just  begin 
again  with  Keith  unhappy  and  —  betrayed.  I  'm  not  made  like 
that." 

Sometimes  I  would  not  let  her  speak.  I  shouted  at  her.  I 
took  her  in  my  arms  and  pleaded  with  her.  She  hardened,  and 
then  broke  into  a  pitiful  appeal.  I  would  not  try  to  understand 
her. 

"  You  are  a  coward,"  I  said  hardly.  "  You  're  bound  and 
scared  by  a  stupid  tradition.  You  can  neither  think  nor  act  for 
yourself."  I  turned  and  left  her. 

How  am  I  to  tell  of  the  coming  and  going  of  our  love?  We 
wrangled  like  bitter  enemies,  and  clung  to  each  other  in  a  passion 
of  tenderness  and  terrified  longing. 

There  were  times  when  we  were  content  just  to  be  together, 
seeing  each  other  every  day,  sharing  thoughts  and  plans  and  en- 
thusiasms. 

For  weeks  I  beat  on  the  queer  hardness  I  had  discovered  in 
her.  With  a  vague  memory  of  the  best  traditions,  I  spent  one 
night  walking  about  the  empty  streets  in  a  stupor  of  rage  and  un- 
happiness.  Somewhere  in  Kingsway  I  almost  fell  over  a  woman 
crouched  sleeping  in  a  doorway.  I  stopped  and  put  what  money 
I  had  on  the  skirt  between  her  sunk  knees.  My  own  grief  seemed 
part  of  the  incredible  misery  of  a  world  awry.  Nothing  fitted: 
everywhere  were  great  cracks  and  chasms  between  the  smooth 
seeming  and  the  sick  reality.  Vast  stone  buildings  braving  the 
stars,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  a  huddled  woman,  spoiled, 
broken  and  utterly  undone.  I  shouted  absurdly  at  the  skies. 
Half -remembered  words  came  to  me  — "  Some  dim,  mysterious 
laughter,  from  the  blind,  tongueless  wardens  of  the  dead."  I  said 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  189 

them  over  as  I  walked,  and  stopped  to  cry — "Margaret,"  and 
began  again,  and  came  again  to  her  name.  She  held  herself  from 
me.  I  should  not  be  able  to  take  her  if  she  came  to  me  and  said  — 
"Take  me  now:  I  can't  bear  it."  I  fought  with  puny  madness 
against  the  inert  forces  that  thrust  down  through  the  centuries  to 
keep  us  apart.  I  felt  suddenly  that  I  snatched  my  love  from 
vile  hands,  snatched  and  held  it  aloft. 

God  knows  I  was  wretched  enough,  but  I  think  that  I  had  an 
unconscious  satisfaction  in  the  completeness  of  my  misery.  Trag- 
edy may  in  sober  truth  be  joyful  for  youth :  for  old  age,  it  is  only 
pitiful  and  to  be  endured. 

I  was  stumbling  over  the  short  grass  in  Hyde  Park  when  the 
madness  dropped  from  me,  and  I  heard,  blown  strangely  by  the 
wind  across  green  spaces,  the  broken,  quivering  cry  of  wakening 
birds.  I  lay  down  under  the  distant  light  of  dawn  and  slept. 

I  abandoned  my  unbearable  attempt  to  browbeat  Margaret.  I 
loved  her.  I  wanted  to  understand  her.  We  had  always  under- 
stood each  other.  I  went  to  her,  determined  to  be  very  patient  and 
kind. 

"  Show  me  why  you  can't  tell  Keith  the  truth  and  come  to  me," 
I  said.  "  I  won't  try  any  more  to  force  you  to  my  way  of  thinking. 
But  I  must  understand.  I  want  you  to  be  free." 

"My  own  deeds  bound  me,"  she  said  somberly,  "but  I  can't 
free  myself." 

"  Margaret,"  I  began,  resentment  pricking  me  again. 

"  No,  don't  argue  with  me,"  she  pleaded.  "  Listen  instead. 
I  'm  right.  I  know  I  'm  right.  It  might  be  easy,  it  might  be  right 
for  another  woman  to  do  as  you  wish  me  to  do  —  to  tell  Keith  I 
love  you  —  and  just  leave  him.  It  would  be  wrong  for  me:  I  feel 
that  it  would  be  wrong."  She  pressed  her  hands  against  her 
breast.  "  There  's  something  in  me  —  you  call  it  fear  of  tradi- 
tion and  convention  —  I  don't  think  it 's  that.  It  can't  be  that. 
Why  should  that  tradition  of  all  others  bind  me?  Perhaps  I 
was  born  a  sort  of  Puritan.  There  's  a  fierce,  a  terrible  revolt  in 
me  against  turning  from  one  man  to  another.  That  sort  of  thing 
can't  be  done  unless  it 's  done  as  the  easiest  thing  —  almost  un- 
concernedly. I  could  n't  do  it  unconcernedly.  I  can't  think  of 
it  unconcernedly.  It  would  be  false  thinking  for  me.  I  should 


190  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

be  false  to  myself,  sinning  against  myself.  Oh,  why  don't  you 
see?  I  'm  made  like  this.  How  can  I  help  it?  I  can't  be  what 
you  want  me  to  be,  not  without  a  pretense  that  would  be  fatal. 
It  would  turn  our  love  bitter.  I  couldn't  bear  it.  .  .  ."  She 
held  out  her  hands  to  me.  "  Oh,  Joy,  Joy,"  she  cried,  "  Joy,  my 
beloved  —  I  love  you  too  well  to  lie  to  myself.  Oh,  my 
dear " 

I  stood  unresponsive,  struggling  with  the  last  remnants  of  my 
labored  and  ridiculous  superiority. 

"  You  would  n't  have  me  pretend  happiness  and  ease?  "  she 
cried.  "  It  would  be  useless  —  wrong." 

**  Yes,"  I  said  at  last.  My  voice  sounded  queerly.  "  I  know 
what  you  mean.  I  Ve  felt  it  too  .  .  ." 

A  forlorn  sense  of  defeat  came  to  me.  I  crossed  the  room 
and  stood  beside  her,  resting  my  face  against  her  hair  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  WEEK  later  I  met  Margaret's  lover  for  the  first  time.     He 
came  through  London  in  June  on  his  way  to  Southampton, 
and  stayed  one  night  with  us.     He  had  an  American  uncle  to 
meet;  I  think.     His  wire  came  while  we  were  at  breakfast.     Mar- 
garet frowned  and  hesitated  over  it. 

**  I  suppose  he  can  have  Mick's  old  room?  "  she  asked  diffi- 
dently. 

It  is  curious  that  I  have  never  been  able  to  regard  Keith 
Ainslie  as  altogether  real.  I  cannot  now  recall  his  face,  nor  the 
tone  of  his  voice,  though  both  were  pleasant.  I  suppose  he  was 
real  enough  to  Margaret,  but  even  after  she  married  him,  he  lived 
in  my  thoughts  with  far  less  of  significance  or  palpable  reality 
than  did  the  impalpable  barrier  that  divided  us. 

During  the  whole  of  the  evening  that  he  stayed  with  us,  I  had 
a  queer  sense  of  detachment.  I  sat  in  my  chair  smoking;  I 
answered  questions,  and  was  very  lifelike.  But  nothing  that  was 
said  made  the  least  impression  on  me.  Can  you  imagine  a  world 
from  which  all  color  has  been  withdrawn,  where  the  forms  of 
things  are  dimly  indicated,  shadows  in  a  prevailing  shadow? 
Things  had  a  colorless,  empty  aspect  for  me  that  night.  The 
flames  of  the  fire  burned  without  light.  The  voices  of  the  speak- 
ers trailed  off  into  thin  spirals  that  eddied  through  the  room  and 
passed  into  dim  and  dimmer  circles  as  wide  as  the  earth.  I  kept 
jerking  myself  back  to  reality,  and  seizing  on  a  word  which  I 
took  back  with  me  into  the  outer  darkness. 

I  believe  that  Keith  had  come  prepared  to  dislike  us.  He 
was  very  agreeable  and  talked  easily  of  many  things,  but  a  curious 
defensive  attitude  lurked  behind  his  words.  It  showed  itself  at 
odd  times.  Oliver  got  out  of  hand  early  in  the  evening,  and  at 
last  became  outrageous.  Keith  treated  him  with  polite  amuse- 
ment until  his  patience  gave  way.  Then  he  said  coolly  — "  Well, 
of  course,  I  know  you  're  all  godalmighties  in  the  universities.  I 
was  a  student  myself  a  year  ago.  You  will  grow  out  of  it." 

191 


192  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

Oliver  stammered.  "  Don't  try  to  come  the  man  of  the  world 
over  us.  You  're  a  fool  now:  you  were  probably  more  of  a  fool 
at  college." 

Margaret  looked  at  me,  but  it  was  Anthony  who  answered  her 
mute  entreaty. 

"  I  '11  apologize  for  Oliver,"  he  said  smoothly.  "  He  '11  not 
apologize  for  himself.  He  cultivates  all  the  external  attributes 
of  genius  with  great  care,  and  among  others  the  proverbial  lack 
of  sense  and  manners.  You  might  otherwise  miss  the  genius." 

Oliver  took  himself  out  of  the  house,  and  Keith  fell  back  on 
his  smiling  hostility. 

I  left  the  next  morning  before  the  others  came  down  to  break- 
fast. My  lectures  were  over  at  eleven,  and  I  took  myself  to  the 
Museum  Reading  Room.  There  I  arranged  books  round  me  in  a 
defensive  disorder,  and  set  myself  to  think. 

At  first  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  senseless  position 
into  which  I  had  drifted.  I  tried  to  trace  the  steps  that  had  led 
me  into  it.  I  wanted  to  see  where  I  had  gone  wrong,  what  I 
could  have  done  to  avert  disaster.  I  was  haunted  by  a  feeling 
that  there  must  have  been  some  decisive  moment.  I  had  over- 
looked it,  or  bungled  it.  I  had  failed  to  say  the  right  things.  I 
had  been  blind,  or  stupid,  or  absurdly  baffled  .  .  . 

An  attendant  brought  a  book  and  laid  it  at  my  elbow.  I 
turned  mechanically  to  thank  him.  Margaret  was  standing  ir- 
resolute behind  my  chair.  I  suppose  she  had  been  to  Waterloo 
with  Keith.  She  looked  tired.  Her  eyes  sought  mine  in  a 
silent  unhappiness.  I  stared  at  her  for  a  minute,  and  then 
pushed  back  my  chair. 

"  Come  along,"  I  whispered.  "  Let 's  go  and  look  at  old  Amen 
Hetep.  You  like  looking  at  him." 


CHAPTER  XII 

JULY  found  us  at  the  end  of  our  tether.     Margaret  and  I  had 
intended  to  stay  in  town  and  carry  on  the  classes,  but  we  saw 
that  it 'was  impossible.     As  we  jolted  through  Walworth  Road, 
waves  of  hot  foetid  air  rolled  against  the  'bus,  turning  us  sick  and 
faint. 

"  You  could  n't  stand  many  summers  of  this,"  I  said  to  Mar- 
garet. 

"  I  sha'n't  have  to,"  she  answered  coolly.  "  I  shall  be  married 
and  living  outside  London  next  July." 

Margaret  had  a  habit  of  such  queerly  insensitive  remarks. 

"  You  '11  at  least  have  air  and  fields  there,"  I  said  shortly. 

"Yes,  but  what  fields!  They  have  no  character.  Smooth, 
smiling,  stupid  school-girls  of  fields.  When  I  think  of  fields,  I 
see  a  wife  rough  slope  running  from  loose  stone  wall  to  broken 
fence.  The  gorse  bushes  are  creeping  across,  and  hillocks  of 
brown  reedy  grass  break  the  green  monotony.  A  field  that  re- 
members the  ordered  feet  of  legions,  and  the  wild  cries  of  sea 
rovers  bringing  fire  and  death." 

That  evening  we  decided  to  go  away  together  for  a  week. 
I  suggested  the  idea,  and  urged  it  on  Margaret. 

"  One  week  out  of  a  lifetime,"  I  said.  "  Oh,  we  '11  keep  all  the 
rules  of  the  road,  never  fear.  Let 's  pretend  for  a  week  that 
we  've  been  shot  into  another  star,  where  there  is  neither  marrying 
nor  giving  in  marriage,  nor  Walworth  Roads,  nor  any  other 
fretting  thing.  Let 's  get  into  some  old,  wide-skied  Utopia  where 
men  do  not  have  bad  dreams." 

We  went  to  the  sea-coast  village  a  mile  from  Margaret's  old 
home.  Margaret  stayed  with  a  huge-armed,  red-haired  woman, 
her  foster  mother,  who  bestowed  upon  her  a  much  warmer  affec- 
tion than  she  had  for  her  ten  lusty  sons  and  daughters,  the  common 
stuff  of  her  life.  I  slept  in  the  attic  bedroom  of  a  fisherman's 
cottage,  and  we  spent  our  days  on  the  cliffs  and  the  shore. 

193 


194  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

It  was  a  good  play.  The  young  sun  shone  on  a  young  world. 
We  climbed  the  narrow,  cobbled  streets  between  the  cliff-fast 
houses,  and  followed  the  valley  inland  until  the  river  narrowed  to 
a  beck  and  was  lost  along  the  slope  of  the  gorge.  Summer  comes 
late  to  the  North,  no  flaunting,  assured  beauty,  but  a  shy  bride, 
stepping  delicately  down  the  dales  between  the  moors,  over  dark 
green  of  primrose  leaves  and  under  the  virginal  green  of  the 
young  birch  trees.  The  yellow  gorse  is  her  rude  courier,  and 
the  tardy  rose  swings  from  the  tangled  hedges. 

On  one  hot  afternoon  we  wandered  over  the  flat  rocks  below 
the  eastern  cliffs.  The  tide  had  turned  to  come  in,  but  Margaret 
led  me  confidently  away  from  the  town.  Slipping  on  the  rocks, 
we  came  round  the  corner  into  a  desolate  bay.  From  the  stark 
shore,  a  black  ridge  of  rock  thrust  out  to  sea.  A  narrow  channel, 
bare  and  dry  beneath  the  sun,  lay  between  its  sharp  slope  and  the 
cliff.  Margaret  took  off  her  shoes  and  scrambled  up  the  ridge. 
Small  stones  rattled  down  on  to  the  rocks  below.  She  stood  for 
a  moment  and  then  ran  with  swift,  perilous  footsteps  to  the  far- 
ther end.  Here  the  narrow  ridge  broadened  out  in  a  platform 
whose  sides  ran  steeply  to  the  sea.  At  one  side  a  mass  of  rocks 
made  a  slippery  stairway.  I  followed  her  slowly.  Already,  the 
narrow  pools  between  the  flat  rocks  were  filling  stealthily. 
Feathery  algae  and  pink  anemones  lifted  and  floated  in  their  green 
depths. 

I  lay  down  beside  her.  The  heat  of  the  sun-warmed  rock 
struck  through  our  thin  clothes.  I  drowsed,  watching  the  tide. 

"Are  you  sure  this  is  safe?  "  I  asked  lazily. 

A  thread  of  water  lay  between  our  couch  and  the  cliffs,  widen- 
ing as  I  looked  at  it. 

"  Safe  as  can  be,"  she  told  me.  "  The  foot  of  the  cliffs  will 
be  deep  in  water  two  hours  before  the  full.  But  this  ridge  of 
rock  is  safe  enough.  Only  the  Spring  tides  sweep  over  it.  Don't 
I  know!  I  used  to  come  here  every  day  the  long  summers 
through.  The  sea  slipped  round  me,  and  there  I  was  on  an  island, 
like  all  the  Crusoes  that  ever  were." 

We  talked  in  sleepy  voices.  Margaret  lay  face  downwards, 
her  chin  resting  on  her  folded  hands. 

"  It  is  queer  that  I  should  be  here  with  you,"  she  said.     "  I 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  195 

have  been  so  often  alone.  I  used  to  sit  trying  to  explain  the 
world  to  myself.  I  made  me  a  city  of  dreams:  you  went  in  by 
one  gate  in  the  shining,  untroubled  morning,  and  left  by  the  other 
in  the  mysterious  night.  It  had  gardens  and  tawny  gleaming 
hills.  Sometimes  its  walls  were  linked  creatures  of  flame,  singing 
together  for  joy;  and  sometimes  marble,  many-hued  marble, 
barred  and  tipped  with  gold.  I  carefully  threw  outside  the  city 
walls  all  the  things  I  could  n't  understand  and  all  the  things  that 
seemeth  to  contradict  each  other.  I  played  with  children  who 
looked  up  to  me.  I  was  as  brave  as  I  was  beautiful."  She 
laughed.  "  Oh,  you  could  n't  fathom  my  conceit." 

"  Poor  little  lonely  conceited  ghost,"  I  said  softly. 

I  put  an  arm  round  her,  and  drew  her  to  me.  Her  body  lay 
warm  against  mine.  I  heard  nothing  but  the  lift  of  the  waves 
against  the  rock,  and  saw  only  her  face,  cool  and  fair  between 
her  loosened  hair.  The  cliffs  behind  us  might  be  the  mountains 
of  the  moon  and  Utopia  be  indeed  beyond  them,  its  white  roads 
waiting  the  pressure  of  our  feet.  It  did  not  matter  then. 

"  Things  got  mixed.  The  walls  faded.  The  contradictions 
grew  and  defied  me.  I  began  to  dream  of  getting  away  into  the 
world  beyond  the  scarped  hills.  I  thought  I  could  come  back 
later  and  tidy  up  the  city  in  the  light  of  wider  knowledge.  But, 
of  course,  the  gates  don't  open  to  me  now.  Some  other  child 
has  the  key." 

She  drew  herself  out  of  my  arms,  and  sat  looking  out  to  sea. 
A  chill  wind  ruffled  the  tops  of  the  waves.  The  color  was  gone 
from  the  water,  and  clouds  hid  the  sun.  I  shivered  and  stood  up. 

"  There  '11  be  a  storm,"  Margaret  said. 

*'  We  'd  better  go.  We  could  just  get  through  to  the  foot  of 
the  cliff." 

She  hesitated. 

"  No,"  she  said.     "  Let 's  stay.     There  's  no  danger." 

The  sky  darkened,  and  a  spirit  woke  in  the  sea,  maddening  the 
waves.  From  the  gathering  darkness,  they  swept  down  upon  us. 
We  stared  at  a  green  wall,  laced  with  spume.  It  shivered  into 
spray  that  drenched  and  blinded  us.  Swirling  and  screaming, 
it  was  sucked  down  and  back,  wrenching  itself  from  the  rock  with 
a  hollow,  deafening  thunder.  The  wind  stung  us.  Margaret 


196  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

swayed  and  almost  fell.    We  lay  down  and  pressed  ourselves 
against  the  platform  of  the  rock. 

"  We  can't  get  away  now,"  Margaret  said. 
I  nodded.  We  should  have  been  crazy  to  attempt  it.  If  we 
had  not  been  blown  off  the  narrow  part  of  the  ridge  we  had  been 
battered  to  death  in  the  raging  cross-currents  of  the  little  ghaut. 
We  waited.  The  waves  broke  against  the  rock,  and  thin  streaks 
of  foam  ran  across  it  to  pour  themselves  over  the  lower  edge. 
Margaret  lifted  her  head  and  smiled  at  me.  I  thought  that  we 
should  be  swept  into  the  sea.  If  there  had  been  anything  that 
we  could  do,  I  could  have  done  it  coolly  enough.  But  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done.  With  defenses  down,  we  abandoned  our- 
selves to  the  universal  madness. 

I  held  Margaret  in  my  arms  in  an  exultant  ecstasy.  I  kissed 
her  cold  face.  I  pushed  back  her  hair  and  kissed  her  eyes 
that  laughed  into  mine.  Through  her  soaked  dress,  I  felt  the 
rounded  body.  I  loved  as  the  gods  love  that  know  neither 
urgency  of  desire  nor  satiety. 

"  Heart  of  mine,  body  of  mine,  I  love  you,"  I  said.  She  could 
not  hear  me,  but  her  lips  moved  in  answer.  We  lay  beneath  the 
darkened  arch  of  the  sky  while  the  solid  universe  split  and 
crashed  round  us.  The  wind  dropped,  I  felt  the  prick  of  rain 
between  the  showers  of  spray.  Our  kisses  were  salt  and  sharp 
with  the  sharpness  of  imminent  parting.  "  Only  a  little  while," 
I  whispered,  "  a  little  while,  dear  love  of  mine,  and  we  shall  be 
free." 

Anti-climax  dogs  mortal  men.  We  were  neither  drowned  nor 
free.  The  rain  stopped.  The  clouds  slunk  behind  the  rim  of  the 
sea,  and  the  sun  shone  over  the  thrusting  waters.  Margaret 
laughed  a  little  unsteadily. 

"  Did  we  die?  "  she  said. 

"Not  quite." 

After  a  while  she  sat  up  and  shook  out  her  hair.  Stooping, 
she  drew  my  head  against  her  knee.  "  I  should  not  have  minded 
death  like  that.  Would  you?  "  she  said. 

"  I  don't  know." 

Apathy  and  an  unreasoning  resentment  pressed  on  me.  I  did 
not  touch  the  hand  that  rested  on  my  shoulder. 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  197 

"  Most  people  are  afraid  of  death  when  it  comes  to  the  point," 
I  said  roughly.  "  I  never  knew  one  who  was  not,  except  my 
father,  and  he  play-acted  with  death  until  it  took  him  unaware  and 
he  had  not  time  to  realize  that  it  was  real.  He  died  well  in  spite 
of  himself." 

*'  That 's  a  hard  thing  to  say." 

"  It 's  a  true  one.  If  he  'd  had  time  to  realize  things,  I  daresay 
he  'd  have  died  cringing  and  protesting.  And  yet  I  don't  know. 
He  had  queer  ideas.  He  believed  that  all  life  was  a  matter  of 
bargains.  Once  you  made  a  compact  with  life  or  your  fellow 
men,  you  had  to  keep  it,  or  else  submit  yourself  to  be  broken 
by  the  destiny  you  had  flouted  and  outraged.  Man  could  not, 
with  impunity  —  he  said  —  break  any  contract  that  his  mind 
and  soul  had  once  assented  to.  The  penalty  was  death  in 
life." 

"  He  had  got  hold  of  something,"  Margaret  said  slowly. 

"  Maybe  so,"  I  answered  indifferently.  "  If  he  had,  it  was 
the  only  thing  he  ever  held  surely  in  all  his  incompetent  life." 

She  moved  a  little. 

"  You  talk  sometimes  as  if  people  —  even  your  own  people  — 
were  somehow  impersonal,  had  nothing  to  do  with  you.  I  don't 
understand  you  then.  There  is  something  in  you  I  can't  touch." 
She  frowned.  "  A  man  should  not  detach  himself  from  men  and 
judge  them." 

"I  don't,"  I  said.  "What  is  there  that  you  can't  touch? 
Except  just  the  reserve  that  we  all  must  have.  Every  self 
should  have  its  virgin  fortress.  It 's  only  decent  so.  Moreover, 
it 's  inevitable.  There  must  be  barriers."  I  struggled  to  explain 
something  that  was  in  my  mind.  It  refused  to  deliver  itself  up. 
"  People  are  somehow  not  real  to  me,"  I  said.  "  Not  always  real, 
I  mean.  I  get  a  sense  that  it  is  all  play-acting.  Even  we  who 
love.  People  recede  into  an  infinite  distance.  [  can't  feel 
them.  I  am  unreal  — and  you.  Nothing  is  real  but  the  bar- 

riers." 

"  Just  now,"  Margaret  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  were  they  there  - 
the  barriers?     Was  I  unreal  to  you?  " 

I  sat  up  and  looked  at  her.  Her  face  was  hidden  by  her 
hair. 


198  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

"No,  they  weren't."  I  trampled  on  my  doubts.  "There 
were  no  barriers."  I  laid  my  head  against  her  arm. 

She  bent  her  face  to  mine,  and  I  shut  my  eyes  before  the 
radiance  of  hers. 

The  waves  lifted  tawny  heads  to  the  passing  sun.  Still  we 
stayed  on  the  rock,  while  the  waters  sank  slowly  between  us  and 
the  cliffs  .  .  . 

I  kissed  her  hair  and  her  face,  pale  below  mine  in  the  darkness. 
A  wind  slipped  over  the  edge  of  the  world.  The  red  gold  of 
the  hidden  sun  lay  across  the  waters  and  trembled  between  the 
drifting  clouds.  Heavy  shadows  came  over  the  eastern  cliffs, 
following  each  other  down  the  dusk.  The  first  shadow  reached 
the  edge  of  the  sea  and  swept  the  hesitant  light.  Sea  and  sky 
leaped  together,  and  we  watched  until  the  universe  strode  back 
and  nothing  was  visible  save  the  thin  white  verge  of  the  waves 
and  the  blackest  mass  of  cliffs  behind  us. 

We  walked  along  the  ridge  and  stood  looking  into  the  gleaming 
shadows  of  the  little  ghaut.  Then,  gathering  up  her  dress, 
Margaret  slipped  down  into  the  water:  it  rose  above  her  knees. 
We  splashed  out  and  ran  along  the  foot  of  the  cliffs  to  the  broken 
upward  path,  stumbling  as  we  went  through  pools  of  shimmering 
light  .  .  . 

I  am  amazed  at  the  ease  with  which  we  forgot  that  a  week  was 
not  a  lifetime.  I  suppose  that  by  all  the  rules  of  loving,  it  should 
have  been  one  long  parting.  But  we  never  thought  of  the  parting. 
We  were  perfectly  happy  and  perfectly  careless.  Perhaps  un- 
consciously we  did  not  believe  in  its  reality.  On  the  night  of  the 
last  day  I  was  suddenly  convinced  that  it  could  not  be  real.  It 
was  absurd  to  think  that  Margaret  intended  to  marry  another 
man,  and  that  I  was  tamely  acquiescing  in  the  folly. 

We  had  started  after  tea  for  the  moors.  It  was  late  when  we 
reached  the  narrow  lane  that  climbed  up  from  the  valley  to  the 
moor  edge.  We  stumbled  over  loose  stones,  and  caught  our  feet 
in  the  brambles  that  stretched  out  from  the  hedges.  The  thin 
scent  of  the  honeysuckle  fled  before  us  through  the  darkness. 
The  warm  night  pressed  on  us.  I  lifted  a  branch  from  Margaret's 
way,  and  a  shower  of  cool  drops  fell  on  my  hair.  The  wild  roses 
slipped  past  like  ghosts  of  flowers  that  had  swooned  in  the 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  199 

heavy  air.  We  splashed  into  a  little  stream  that  ran  across  the 
road. 

At  the  top  of  the  lane  I  swung  open  the  wide  gate  and  we 
walked  over  the  marshy  ground.  Reeds,  and  young  bracken, 
and  then  the  heather.  We  disturbed  peewits.  They  rose,  wheel- 
ing and  screaming  away  from  us.  On  the  slope  of  the  first  rise  we 
sat  down.  The  sky  sprang  away  on  either  side.  A  faint  luminous 
light,  infinitely  remote,  hung  above  the  hill  where  the  languid 
crescent  moon  lay  on  her  back. 

I  sat  very  still.  Margaret  drew  me  down  so  that  I  rested  in 
her  arms,  but  after  a  while  I  could  not  endure  it. 

*'  Don't  you  see  now  that  you  can't  do  this  thing?  You  can't 
make  me  give  you  up.  You  dare  n't." 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  "  don't.  Don't  spoil  it,  Joy.  It  was  to  be  our 
week.  Don't  go  letting  in  reality  now." 

"  This  is  reality,"  I  said.  "  The  other  was  madness  —  wicked- 
ness. How  can  you ?  "  My  voice  rose.  "  How  can  you  go 

to  another  man  —  you  that  have  lain  in  my  arms  these  days?  " 

I  had  an  unhappy  sense  that  I  was  making  my  protest  as  of 
duty  bound.  I  must  protest  for  my  pride's  sake. 

Margaret  took  my  hand  in  hers.     She  spoke  quickly. 

"  See.  I  love  you  as  I  never  knew  it  possible  to  love.  I  would 
give  the  rest  of  my  life  to  cut  out  the  past  years  —  to  be  free. 
I  would  give  it  gladly.  If  you  will  now,  you  can  force  me  to  say 
that  I  cannot  let  you  go.  I  should  cry  out  and  cling  to  you. 
And  to-morrow  I  should  break  my  word  to  you  —  and  go  back 
to  the  other." 

"  And  what  if  you  can't  bear  it,  Margaret?  What  if  you  find 
the  other  —  intolerable?  " 

"  I  can  bear  it,"  she  said  quickly.  "  You  don't  understand  me. 
Don't  think  I  sha'n't  regret.  I  shall  regret  and  suffer.  I  shall 
want  you.  I  shall  want  to  die.  But  I  shall  neither  die  nor  come 
to  you.  There  is  something  stolid  in  me  —  something  deep  down 
and  stolid  as  a  rock.  I  can  bear  anything." 

"Why  should  you  bear  it?     Why  set  yourself  to  bear  grie 

and  parting?  "  .    , 

"I  can  bear  those  things,"  she  repeated.  "But  I  could  nt 
bear  the  other  kind  of  regret.  The  sense  of —  of  betrayal  and 


200  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

weakness.  A  light  woman,  taking  one  love  and  then  another. 
The  idea  offends  me  as  an  ugly  picture  might.  It 's  nothing  to  do 
with  the  moral  rubbish.  It 's  just  that  I  feel  able  to  bear  the  one 
misery  but  not  the  other.  Ah,  you  don't  understand.  I  don't 
understand.  I  only  feel.  And  there  is  pity,  my  pity  for  Keith." 

She  turned  to  me  with  a  little  cry.     I  would  not  look  at  her. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  end  of  that  story  of  Tolstoy's,"  I  said 
slowly,  "  where  he  repeats  that  the  sin  is  in  the  eyes?  Whosoever 
looketh  on  a  woman  to  lust  after  her  .  .  ." 

Her  face  burned. 

"Haven't  we  sinned?"  I  went  on  harshly.  "What  does  it 
matter  that  we  've  stopped  short  of  technical  adultery?  In  your 
thoughts  have  n't  you  been  just  what  you  say  you  cannot  be? 
It 's  the  spirit  that  matters.  You  're  exalting  the  body  above  the 
spirit  .  .  ." 

She  stumbled  over  her  words.  "  No  —  it  is  not  so.  To  say 
that  the  sin  is  in  the  eyes  is  —  an  overstrained  sentiment.  It 's 
not  so.  It  does  matter  that  the  body  is  withheld.  It  matters 
everything.  Body  is  personality  as  much  as  is  spirit.  And  I  can 
control  my  body.  A  wanton  spirit  is  harder  to  control,  but  it 
need  n't  mean  a  wanton  body " 

She  broke  off  with  a  short,  distressed  laugh.  "  What  is  the  use 
of  talking  ethics,  Joy?  This  has  nothing  to  do  with  ethics.  It  is 
a  matter  of  feeling.  What  I  feel  another  may  not  —  and  feeling 
is  the  guide.  I  do  what  I  must.  This  is  our  week.  Let  us  have 
it.  Afterwards  —  when  I  am  married  —  dignity,  if  nothing  else, 
will  keep  us  apart.  We  cannot  be  forever  —  clutching  at  each 
other  round  corners.  Just  for  this  week  we  are  free  to  love  —  as 
much  as  we  may.  After  all,"  she  smiled  wryly,  "  if  Keith  could 
be  consulted,  he  would  assuredly  prefer  a  faithless  spirit  in  a 
faithful  body  to  complete  and  irrevocable  betrayal." 

And  while  I  felt  still  that  I  should  make  a  scene  and  call  upon 
the  indignant  heavens  to  witness  her  folly,  I  knew  the  futility 
of  protestation.  I  had  come  to  something  in  Margaret  that  I 
could  neither  move  nor  alter.  I  might  for  a  while  carry  her 
with  me,  but  as  surely  as  ever  I  knew  anything,  I  knew  that 
I  could  not  keep  her.  I  should  have  to  let  her  go. 


THE  EIKONOKLASTS:  A  SCHEME  201 

"  After  all,  a  bargain  's  a  bargain,"  she  whispered.  I  saw  her 
quick  smile. 

I  put  my  head  down  on  her  knees,  and  let  the  anguish  sweep 
over  me. 

We  did  not  go  home  that  night,  but  slept  in  the  shelter  of  an 
old  quarry.  Margaret  slept  in  my  arms.  I  woke  and  stared  at 
the  paling  sky  through  the  sparse  branches  of  a  mountain  ash. 
"  My  sweet,"  I  whispered.  "  My  wife."  She  woke  with  my 
lips  oh  hers.  In  that  moment  we  knew  the  bitterness  of  death. 

Early  in  September  we  gave  that  preposterous  Eikonoklast 
dinner.  A  week  later,  Margaret  and  Keith  Ainslie  were  married. 
Keith  had  come  up  to  London  to  manage  in  an  aeroplane  factory 
that  his  firm  had  just  built.  He  and  Margaret  went  to  live  at 
Purley.  Margaret  came  every  day  to  the  Reading  Room  and  the 
Hammersmith  classes.  Sometimes  she  came  to  Herne  Hill,  and 
worked  with  Oliver  and  Anthony,  but  only  when  she  knew  I 
should  not  be  there.  We  avoided  each  other.  In  some  in- 
definable way  her  marriage  had  destroyed  our  self-confidence. 
We  distrusted  ourselves  and  our  capacity  to  take  up  the  old, 
careless  intimacy. 


BOOK  III 
CHAOS 


CHAPTER  I 

autumn  of  1913  brought  more  changes  in  our  household 
_  than  Margaret's  marriage.  I  had  my  scholarship  extended 
for  a  further  year,  and  Oliver  bowed  his  proud  spirit  to  teach 
English  and  the  lower  kind  of  classics  in  a  Dulwich  school.  He 
got  on  with  the  work  better  than  I  expected,  managing  somehow  to 
keep  it  in  a  compartment  of  his  brain  that  could  be  barred  and 
bolted  every  day  at  five  o'clock.  It  may  have  been  bad  pedagogy 
but  it  was  sound  sense  in  an  age  when  pedagogy  is  no  profession 
for  a  decent  man.  Anthony's  plans  went  all  awry.  He  did  not 
get  the  expected  post  in  an  agricultural  college  in  spite  of 
recommendations  from  three  professors.  The  post  went  to  the 
needy  relative  of  a  Bradford  millowner  whose  endowments  were 
worth  a  good  deal  more  to  the  college  than  professional  pro- 
testations. James  Calvert  wrote  a  bitterly  playful  letter  offering 
him  work  on  the  farm.  Before  Anthony  could  compose  a  refusal 
to  his  liking  Keith  Ainslie  invited  him  to  come  into  the  aeroplane 
factory.  His  uncle  had,  he  said,  given  him  something  of  a  free 
hand  in  the  choice  of  departmental  managers.  He  urged  Anthony 
to  accept  the  offer.  "  We  could  train  you  as  a  tester  of  machines," 
he  said:  "if  you  care  for  that  sort  of  thing.  We  are  all  be- 
ginning, you  see.  Now  is  the  time  to  come  into  these  things." 
Anthony  had  no  hesitation.  He  accepted,  and  sent  a  jubilant 
letter  home. 

"  The  old  man  could  never  resist  success,"  he  said.  "  You 
see:  he  '11  begin  to  assure  my  mother  that  I  'm  not  so  bad  as  he 
feared." 

Alas  for  youthful  charity.  The  letter  his  father  returned 
began  — "  Can  it  be  possible  that  of  your  own  free  will  you  have 
entered  upon  the  most  fatal  of  occupations?  Where  was  your 
conscience,  where  the  training  of  your  devoted  mother,  when  you 
elected  to  fling  away  all  the  years  of  an  expensive  education  to 
enroll  yourself  with  the  fools  and  evil  livers  who  pursue  such 

205 


206    ,  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

dangerous  careers?  Believe  me,  there  is  neither  honesty,  worth, 
nor  money  in  the  life  you  have  chosen.  I  should  be  glad  if  you 
would  return  to  me  the  gladstone  bag  I  loaned  you.  If  a  merciful 
God  permits  you  to  live  long  enough  to  rue  your  follies  I  shall 
be  glad  to  let  you  have  it  again.  Meanwhile,  prepare  to  meet 
thy  God  —  Your  loving  father,  J.  Calvert." 

To  this  letter  Anthony  made  no  reply.  Three  months  later 
a  scrawl  from  his  brother  David  sent  him  flying  north.  His 
father  was  dying,  and  his  mother,  to  punish  Anthony's  un- 
dutiful  silence,  had  determined  to  withhold  all  news  until  her 
husband  was  dead  and  buried.  A  week  later  Anthony  returned. 
He  said  nothing  of  his  journey  until  Oliver  asked  awkwardly  — 
"  How  is  your  father?  "  Anthony  seemed  to  rouse  himself 
from  a  dull  dream.  "  The  old  man?  Oh,  he  's  off." 

"  Off?  "  I  repeated.     "  Off  where?  " 

"  Dead." 

It  was  several  days  later  when  he  told  us  that  his  father  had 
refused  to  see  him.  "  He  would  not  set  eyes  on  me  unless  I 
promised  to  give  up  the  work  at  the  factory.  So  I  never  saw 
him."  He  added  — "  There  's  something  about  the  old  people 
that  there  isn't  about  us.  Something  hard  and  stable,  I  mean. 
Something  we're  none  the  better  for  losing.  I  can't  imagine 
David,  for  instance,  or  myself,  running  that  farm  as  my  father 
has  run  it  for  sixty  years,  in  good  years  and  bad,  extending 
it  and  bettering  it  every  year.  For  it 's  a  hard  farm  —  with  the 
moor  hanging  about  all  the  upper  fields.  I  suppose  I  shall 
have  to  go  back  to  it  —  but  not  yet  —  I  can't  go  yet." 

Anthony  went  oftener  than  any  of  us  to  the  house  at  Purley. 
He  stayed  on  in  Herne  Hill  and  bought  a  motor-cycle  to  take 
him  to  his  work.  Keith  Ainslie  liked  him  rather  more  than 
he  disliked  the  rest  of  us.  His  smooth  manners  deceived  Keith: 
they  deceived  other  people  who  did  not  live  with  Anthony. 
Keith  believed  him  to  be  free  of  the  conceit  that  raged  in  the 
Hearne  clan:  he  clung  rather  pathetically  to  the  idea  that  among 
all  Margaret's  unhappy  choice  of  friends,  Anthony,  the  only 
reputable  one,  was  also  the  one  who  appreciated  Margaret's 
husband. 

Oliver  and  I  went  down  to  Purley  for  odd  week-ends.     It 


CHAOS  207 

came  upon  me  with  something  of  shock  that  Keith  was  pain- 
fully jealous  of  Oliver.     The  boy  allowed  his  dislike  of  Keith  to 
be  so  childishly  clear  that  an  older  man  would  have  laughed  at 
it.     Keith  did  not  laugh.     He  quarreled  with  Oliver:  he  even 
came  to  Herne  Hill  with  no  apparent  purpose  but  to  continue 
their  senseless  disputes.     Mutual  jealousy  drove  them  into  each 
other's  company.     Keith  was  given  to  fits  of  irritability  and  at 
these  times  his  hatred  of  Oliver  obsessed  him.     He  would  sit 
for  an  hour  staring  at  Margaret  and  Oliver  with  eyes  devoid  of 
expression.     Up   to   the  very   last,   Margaret  did   not   seem  to 
realize  the  depth  of  this  feeling.     She  ignored  his  ill-temper,  and 
never  guessed  at  the  suspicions  that  inflamed  it.     I  remember 
an  incident  that  might  have  warned  her.     It  occurred  during  the 
performance  at  some  theater  or  other  where  she  and  Oliver  spent 
the  time  between  the  acts  on  the  syllabus  of  her  Sunday  lectures. 
During  the  long  interval  Keith  got  up  sullenly  to  make  a  telephone 
call  and  I  followed,  with  a  vague  idea  of  lightening  his  gloom. 
Coming  back,  he  stopped  abruptly  in  the  aisle.     My  eyes  followed 
the  glance  of  his.     Oliver's  arm  was  flung  along  the  back  of 
Margaret's  seat  as  they  bent  together  over  their  scraps  of  paper. 
He  looked  up,  saw  us  staring  at  him,  and  stooped  his  head  to 
Margaret's  with  a  half-deliberate  air  of  possession.     Keith  sat 
throughout  the  rest  of  the  evening  in  a  speechless  rage.     His  wife 
passed  over  his  discourtesies  as  if  he  had  been  a  fretful  child. 
I  had  a  moment  of  sympathy  for  him. 

The  moment  recurred  at  odd  times  during  the  next  few  months. 
I  do  not  believe  that  Keith  had  many  days  of  untroubled  happiness 
in  his  marriage.  He  must  have  come  to  loathe  the  sight  of  us. 
He  was  sensitive  enough  to  feel  the  want  of  sympathy  between 
himself  and  Margaret,  and  we  were  associated  in  his  mind  with 
everything  that  he  blamed  for  the  subtle  difference  in  her.  He 
burned  to  take  her  away  from  us,  away  from  all  memory  of  her 
Herne  Hill  life.  If  he  could  do  that,  she  would  be  his  again  as 
in  the  first  days  of  their  love.  He  resented  her  absorption  in  our 
work  at  Hammersmith.  It  made  it  necessary  for  her  to  see  us 
every  day.  And  since  he  could  not  accuse  her  of  neglecting  him 
—  Margaret  too  plainly  put  him  and  his  comfort  before  every 
other  interest  —  he  fell  to  ridiculing  the  Scheme.  He  accused 


208  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

us  of  intellectual  slumming.    The  accusation  may  or  may  not 
have  been  true,  but  it  was  made  in  bad  faith. 

I  gave  up  going  to  Purley  and  kept  Oliver  away  as  much  as 
possible. 

And  yet  Keith  Ainslie  made  his  own  unhappiness.  I  do 
verily  believe  that  if  he  had  not  added  jealousy  to  a  naturally 
moody  disposition,  he  would  have  made  a  success  of  his  marriage: 
so  ready  is  mortal  man  to  accept  the  second  best.  Margaret 
loved  him  with  a  tenderness  that  had  no  part  in  her  love  for  me. 
She  bore  with  his  moods  and  cared  for  him  unwearyingly.  If 
she  had  guessed  at  his  jealousy  I  think  she  would  have  thrown 
Oliver  overboard  without  the  least  compunction.  To  save  Keith 
pain  became  something  of  a  passion  with  her. 

He  had,  indeed,  an  appealing  charm.  I  felt  it  myself.  I  do 
not  mean  the  phrase  to  imply  the  least  suggestion  of  weakness. 
He  had  practical  skill  and  a  genius  for  management.  He  made 
friends  easily  and  kept  them.  I  do  not  think  he  was  very  easy 
to  live  with:  he  had  his  full  share  of  the  obstinate  suspicious 
temper  that  is  often  the  underside  of  a  sensitive  personality. 
He  could  love  his  wife  and  suspect  her  good  faith  at  the  same 
time  and  with  the  same  fervor.  This  alliance  of  emotions  seems 
to  hold  an  essential  place  in  every  decent  and  sanctified  home: 
and  few  of  the  sanctified  decencies  had  been  omitted  in  the 
training  of  Keith  Ainslie. 

Margaret's  upbringing  had  ill-fitted  her  to  cope  with  them. 
An  orthodox  home  life  might  have  taught  her  to  recognize  their 
presence  in  Keith's  moody  tempers.  The  very  tenderness  that 
she  lavished  on  him  aggravated  his  fears.  He  felt,  I  think, 
that  she  would  not  be  so  tender  if  she  were  not  conscious  of 
having  taken  from  him  her  early  passionate  love.  He  was  just 
fine  enough  to  regret  its  loss  and  not  so  fine  that  he  could  take 
with  an  honest  faith  what  she  could  honestly  give. 

Margaret  would  have  been  happy  enough  in  her  marriage. 
I  suppose  she  had  her  moments  of  wretchedness  and  longing. 
I  know  that  she  had.  We  were  left  alone  one  day  in  our  sitting- 
room  at  Herne  Hill.  She  stood  looking  out  of  the  window  for  a 
minute  or  two.  Then  turning  abruptly,  she  made  a  step  towards 
me.  "  Joy,"  she  whispered,  w  Joy,"  Her  voice  was  hardly 


CHAOS  209 

audible  and  she  put  her  hand  to  her  throat  as  if  the  word  hurt 
her.  The  blood  sang  in  my  head.  We  looked  at  each  other.  I 
should  have  had  her  in  my  arms.  The  smell  of  the  moors  struck 
across  my  senses  with  the  sharpness  of  a  blow.  It  tore  at  my 
heart.  I  held  out  my  arms.  Abruptly  she  evaded  me,  and  the 
door  shut  behind  her. 

Oh,  we  suffered.  No  doubt  but  that  something  had  gone  out 
of  our  lives,  something  fine  and  to  be  desired.  And  yet  the 
heart  of  our  lives  was  not  gone,  and  in  our  sane  moments  we 
knew  that.  We  had  left  to  us  the  most  precious  things,  work, 
youth,  and  friendship.  Men  have  wrecked  their  lives  for  a 
lesser  love  than  ours.  And  yet  we  could  never,  outside  brief 
intolerable  moments,  doubt  that,  losing  each  other,  we  had  still 
the  noblest  part  of  our  heritage.  I  do  not  know  why  this  should 
be  so.  It  was  not  so  because  our  love  was  a  little  thing. 

Friendship  is  an  emotion  finer  and  sweeter  than  the  greatest 
love  in  fable  and  romance.  I  did  not  console  myself  with  this 
reflection.  Consolation  would  have  been  futile  sometimes  and 
the  rest  of  the  time  unnecessary.  But  I  knew  it  to  be  true. 

The  queer  fact  of  woman's  hopeless  tendency  to  mix  up  sex 
and  friendship,  or  friendship  and  her  domineering  instinct,  must 
be  taken  into  account  when  we  consider  the  growing  freedom 
of  intercourse  between  men  and  women.  If  you  are  to  teach 
that  liberty  is  good,  good  as  means  or  end;  if  you  are  to  have 
women  sharing  in  every  activity  of  life,  you  must  face  the 
certainty  of  tremendous  changes  in  the  whole  view-point  on 
sex  relations.  You  have,  indeed,  one  aspect  of  the  change  already 
in  the  outcrop  of  agglutinous  philosophies  of  free  love  and 
matriarchal  revivalism. 

It  is,  after  all,  not  so  easy  to  slough  off  the  puritan  reverence 
for  words  that  can  make  our  bowels  turn  to  water  at  the  mere 
flourish  of  phrases  about  chastity  and  license.  And  yet  it  must 
be  done,  if  we  are  ever  to  be  free  men  again  in  a  commonwealth 
of  real  things.  If  an  enforced  chastity  is  no  chastity  at  all, 
neither  is  a  spineless  indulgence  of  every  stray  desire  to  be  swollen 
by  the  title  of  license.  License,  after  all,  implies  an  exercise 
of  will,  even  if  it  be  an  ill  will. 

No  doubt  of  the  coming  change.     And  since  the  world  cannot 


210  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

be  pushed  back  either  to  a  joyous  paganism,  or  to  a  joyless  purity 
fostered  and  shaped  by  the  cat  o'  nine  tails,  it  must  even  go  on 
its  way. 

Where  does  the  way  lead?  Perhaps  you  are  assured  that  it 
goes  straight  to  hell,  and  you  try  to  waft  it  back  with  much 
fluttering  of  lawn  sleeves  and  petitions  against  divorce.  Inasmuch 
as  you  are  doing  what  you  must,  I  can  only  wonder  and  smile 
a  respectful  smile.  But  if  you  have  not  an  assurance  of  your 
unlimited  right  and  ability  to  interfere  in  men's  lives  and  the 
striving  of  their  minds,  if  you  are  only  a  perplexed  mortal  with 
no  assurance  of  a  divine  ordinance  to  be  infallibly  impertinent, 
you  will  have  at  least  a  show  of  patience  with  my  uncertainties. 

I  think  it  almost  certain  that  in  the  immediate  future,  feeling 
will  be  taken  more  and  more  for  guide  in  the  conflicts  that  arise 
between  wish  and  tradition.  The  arbitrary  inhibitions  have  no 
longer  a  secure  hold  on  minds.  On  those  minds,  I  mean,  that 
are  not  partakers  in  the  divine  infallibility.  Common  men 
like  ourselves  go  looking  within  to  our  own  half-realized  desires 
for  understanding  and  assurance.  The  old  dogs  of  "  shall  not " 
are  no  longer  to  be  whistled  up.  The  striving  mind  goes  fum- 
bling and  groping  past  them  for  less  blind  guides  of  conduct. 

Ho,  infallible  ones,  a  word  in  your  ear. 

How  if  you  were  to  drop  the  cat  o'  nine  tails  and  set  out  with 
the  searching  mind?  Its  first  steps  into  freedom  will  be  dan- 
gerous, may  easily  be  fatal. 

I  feel  that  somewhere  in  this  question  of  the  friendships  of  men 
and  women  lies  the  clue  that  will  unravel  a  good  many  bewilder- 
ments. And  I  feel  also  that  the  possibility  of  such  friendship  is 
rooted  in  a  subtler  and  bolder  self-knowledge.  We  go  astray 
because  of  confused  and  unrecognized  desires.  We  desire  one 
thing  and  in  our  fumbling  ignorance  achieve  another,  and  wonder 
at  our  dissatisfaction  and  unrest.  It  looks,  on  the  face  of  it,  as  if 
Margaret  and  I  had  made  the  usual  failure  of  our  friendship. 
And  yet  I  believe  I  have  an  answer  to  that  if  I  could  but  get  it 
into  words.  Margaret  had  at  least  two  other  close  friends 
among  the  men  we  knew,  bound  to  her  by  a  long  untroubled 
intimacy.  She  had  a  capacity  for  friendship  that  seemed  to 
spring  from  the  double  root  of  her  intellectual  self-confidence 


CHAOS  211 

and  her  single-mindedness.  She  neither  mothered  nor  intrigued 
men.  For  the  matter  of  that  she  certainly  did  not  "  mother  " 
or  make  love  to  me.  We  found  it  quite  possible  —  nay,  quite 
natural  and  easy  —  to  maintain  a  serene  friendship  alongside 
our  passionate  love.  It  was  the  love  and  never  the  friendship 
that  took  on  the  appearance  of  an  episode,  an  accidental,  ob- 
trusive thing. 

I  cannot  explain  why  it  should  be  so.     I  only  know  that  it  is. 

My  mind  returns  again  and  again  to  this,  as  if  it  were  the 
significant  thing.  Is  it  possible  that  the  future  will  explain 
it  and  be  explained  through  it?  We  may,  I  mean,  leave  behind 
us  the  fierce  possessive  hunger  that  consumed  Keith  Ainslie's 
happiness  and  wrecked  his  life.  The  whole  romantic  structure 
of  passionate  love  may  come  in  our  eyes  to  take  up  a  position 
of  subsidiary  importance.  I  believe  that  it  is  indeed  subsidiary. 
Only  we  cannot  see  it  undistorted  because  it  is  mixed  up  with  so 
many  other  things  that  we  passionately  desire  —  beauty,  adven- 
ture, companionship,  sympathy. 

We  have  to  get  things  sorted  into  their  places. 

Much  that  is  confused  will  be  clear,  much  that  is  inaccessible 
must  be  accessible,  before  that  which  a  man  wishes  is  at  the  same 
time  his  and  the  world's  surest  guide. 

In  the  meantime,  is  it  conceivable  that  the  race  will  wait  on 
the  flutterings  of  the  infallible  or  stand  still  until  freedom  is 
taught  in  continuation  classes? 


CHAPTER  II 

EARLY  in  the  following  year  I  had  a  letter  from  Mick.     He 
wrote  from  an  island  in  the  Danish  West  Indies  where  he 
was  putting  in  a  month's  holiday  with  a  man  he  had  met  in  St. 
Vincent.     He   sang   his  host's  praises  with   the  fervor   of  two 
months'  acquaintanceship. 

"  Mayo  's  a  fine  fellow.  You  'd  take  him  to  your  heart.  He 
is  the  son  of  an  Englishman,  and  his  father  had  him  sent  to 
Edinburgh.  His  mother  died  off  before  she  'd  had  time  to  get 
fat  and  horrible:  all  these  native  beauties  get  fat.  So  Mayo's 
father  kept  a  kind  of  romantic  affection  for  her.  When  he  went 
back  home  and  married,  he  did  n't  forget  Mayo,  who  by  the  way, 
looks  more  English  than  I  do.  He  left  him  half  his  cotton  land, 
and  Mayo  's  one  of  the  most  successful  planters  hereabouts.  He 
keeps  ten  dogs,  a  gramophone  with  a  magnificent  collection  of 
'cello  records,  and  a  cook  who  is  also  his  mistress.  I  don't  know 
anything  about  her  other  qualifications,  but  she 's  a  real  cook. 
Mayo  knows  more  about  modern  European  literature  than  we 
know  about  English.  Also  he  has  a  lovely  wit.  The  society  — 
what  there  is  of  society  —  round  here  is  hierarchical  down  to  its 
toe  nails,  and  the  ladies  look  a  bit  askance  at  Mayo.  The  Danish 
Governor,  a  half-educated  old  wine-vat,  is  very  fond  of  him, 
except  when  his  wife  has  been  telling  him  he  ought  to  have  more 
respect  for  the  imperishable  glories  of  civilization  than  to  hobnob 
with  half-castes  born  in  sin.  Then  he  joggles  up  his  languishing 
ideals,  forgets  all  about  his  stray  sixty-six  children,  and  squints 
round  his  nose  at  Mayo.  Mayo  just  waits  until  the  poor  old  fool 
has  to  come  sneaking  round  for  help  with  his  correspondence,  and 
then  he  makes  him  listen  to  a  long  tale  of  Britain's  glorious 
supremacy  before  he  '11  lift  a  finger  for  him.  The  Governor 
hates  Britain:  he  squirms  and  gobbles  and  gets  congested  about 
the  gills.  Yesterday  he  rashly  remarked  that  the  English  lan- 
guage was  corrupted  Danish:  that  is  actually  what  these  daft  oits 

212 


CHAOS  213 

here  believe.  Mayo  turned  his  back  and  said  nothing.  The 
Governor,  to  mollify  him,  began  talking  about  Shakespeare,  what 
a  great  dramatist  he  was  and  his  poetry  and  so  on.  'Poor 
devil,'  said  Mayo,  '  he  had  to  write  in  corrupt  Danish.'  " 

Much  of  the  letter  was  filled  with  Mick's  thanksgiving  that  he 
was  out  of  England. 

"  I  shall  never  come  back.  I  should  suffocate  or  take  to 
strangling  parish  councilors  for  fun.  That 's  what  England  is  — 
a  distended  parish  council.  You  Ve  got  no  sense  of  proportion. 
You  can't  see  that  the  future  of  England  is  already  settled  — 
doesn't  matter.  The  countries  that  matter  are  Eastern  Asia  — 
expanding  into  Siberia  —  Australia,  and  America.  The  Pacific 
and  not  the  Atlantic  matters  now." 

I  had  written  him  that  I  saw  nothing  at  the  end  of  my  second 
year  of  research  but  an  assistant  mastership  in  some  public  school. 
Mick  was  relentlessly  opposed  to  such  a  dead-alive  life.  'He 
argued  about  it.  "  You  've  a  lot  of  brain,  but  whether  you  '11 
land  on  your  feet  as  the  servant  of  any  one  else  I  doubt.  Like 
all  our  family  you  have  a  rasping  tongue,  and  how  you  '11  get  on 
with  any  headmaster  God  only  knows.  Look  here,  give  up  this 
fooling  round  in  London  and  come  abroad.  I  am  willing  to  go 
anywhere  you  like.  Think  about  it,  Joy.  I  know  what  I  'm 
saying.  There  's  plenty  to  do  out  here  when  you  know  your  way 
about.  Why,  Mayo  would  take  us  in  with  him  —  if  only  to  have 
a  little  decent  society.  But  I  '11  do  anything  you  like  if  you  '11 
only  come." 

I  put  the  letter  aside.  The  more  I  thought  of  it,  the  more 
attracted  was  I  by  the  notion.  No  doubt  I  should  have  fallen 
in  with  it.  I  did,  indeed,  warn  my  mother  that  I  might  go.  And 
I  told  Margaret,  for  the  poor  pleasure  of  seeing  her  eyes  darken 
and  her  mouth  twist. 

I  was  at  home  when  Mick's  letter  came.  And  while  I  sat 
reading  it  on  the  windy  cliffs,  chance  in  London  had  already 
prepared  the  first  of  a  tale  of  happenings  that,  before  ever  the 
war  scattered  the  poor  last  of  them,  had  made  an  end  of  nearly 
all  my  plans. 

Oliver  and  Anthony  had  stayed  in  town  through  the  Christmas 
vacation.  We  were  expecting  them  to  spend  its  last  week  with 


214  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

us.  The  Saturday  when  they  should  have  come  passed  without 
them,  and  on  Monday  night  Oliver  came  alone.  Anthony  had 
hurried  to  the  farm  with  his  brother's  warning  letter  in  his  pocket. 
Oliver  was  shortly  explanatory.  Margaret,  he  said,  had  stayed 
the  past  week  in  Herne  Hill.  She  and  Kersent  were  drawing  up 
our  next  term's  syllabus  for  all  the  classes  except  those  in 
biology.  Keith,  called  hurriedly  to  Scotland,  had  agreed  that  it 
would  be  easier  for  her  to  stay  in  London  for  a  few  days  and 
work  without  interruption.  With  reluctance  he  agreed  also  that 
she  might  as  well  give  herself  the  pleasure  of  staying  with  her 
friends. 

"  Pretend  you  're  a  free  sprite  if  you  must,"  he  said.  "  If 
that 's  the  sort  of  life  you  like." 

So  she  came  one  Monday  and  on  the  following  Saturday  morn- 
ing made  her  farewells  to  Oliver  and  Anthony  over  an  early 
breakfast.  She  was  going  back  to  Purley  that  afternoon  and  there 
were  still  things  to  be  settled.  Ten  minutes  after  she  left  the 
house  the  post  brought  the  news  of  James  Calvert's  illness.  An- 
thony hurried  away  to  catch  the  morning  train  north. 

Oliver  hated  to  have  his  plans  upset.  If  things  failed  to 
happen  as  he  expected  he  shut  himself  up  in  a  sullen  lethargy 
and  did  nothing  at  all.  After  Anthony  had  gone  he  idled  about 
the  house  until  it  was  too  late  to  reach  King's  Cross  for  the 
afternoon  train.  He  decided  to  travel  by  the  night  mail.  In 
the  evening  a  whim  took  him  to  the  Elephant  and  Castle  Theater. 
There  he  sat  for  the  better  part  of  an  hour,  reveling  in  low 
and  rustic  emotions,  until  it  was  borne  in  upon  him  that  he  could 
not  bear  to  leave  London.  He  was  very  tired:  he  left  the 
theater  before  the  hero  had  fully  recovered  from  his  first-act 
downfall  and  returning  to  Herne  Hill,  went  straight  to  bed. 
Margaret  walked  into  the  house  an  hour  later.  She  and  Kersent 
had  worked  on  until  late  in  the  evening.  It  was  not  too  late 
for  Margaret  to  go  down  to  Purley,  but  she  shrank  from  arriving 
at  that  time  of  the  night  in  an  empty,  fireless  house.  She  had 
sent  the  servants  away  for  a  week's  holiday  and  neither  of  them 
would  be  back  until  Monday.  She  made  her  way  to  Herne  Hill 
therefore.  To  May  Rutherford,  daughter  of  the  house,  she 
apologized  for  presenting  herself  without  warning  and  at  such 


CHAOS  215 

an  hour.  "I'm  afraid  you'll  be  annoyed  with  me,"  she  said. 
"  Just  when  you  thought  you  'd  got  rid  of  the  lot  of  us."  The 
girl  looked  at  her  and  seemed  about  to  speak.  She  said  nothing, 
however,  and  went  up  to  bed,  leaving  Margaret  in  the  chilly 
sitting-room.  Margaret  read  in  a  haphazard  way  until  after 
midnight  and  then  herself  went  softly  upstairs. 

In  the  morning  she  breakfasted  alone.  An  hour  later  Oliver 
opened  the  door  and  stood  staring  at  her. 

"Margaret!" 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  'd  gone  north." 

Oliver  began  explanations.  May  appeared  in  the  doorway 
and  Margaret  turned  to  her.  "You  never  told  me  Mr.  Hearne 
was  still  here." 

The  girl  laughed  and  spoke  amazingly.  "  There 's  none  so 
deaf  as  those  that  won't  hear,"  she  said,  and  vanished  into  the 
kitchen.  The  other  two  looked  at  each  other. 

"Touch  of  the  sun,"  Oliver  suggested. 

"  In  January?  " 

Margaret  puzzled  over  the  incident  for  a  few  minutes  and 
then  forgot  it.  After  lunch  she  went  down  to  Purley.  Oliver 
left  Herne  Hill  with  her.  He  intended  to  travel  at  night,  but 
in  the  end  spent  the  night  wandering  round  London  and  did  not 
go  north  until  the  following  morning. 

The  queer  episode  of  May  Rutherford  stuck  in  my  mind  long 
after  Oliver's  casual  recital.  "What  do  you  suppose  she 
meant?  "  I  asked  him. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  said  indifferently.  "Don't  suppose 
she  meant  anything.  She  always  was  rather  insane." 

"  She  's  had  a  grudge  against  Margaret  ever  since  that  night." 

Oliver  stared.  "What  do  you  mean,  a  grudge?  What  has 
Margaret  to  do  with  the  wench  and  her  adventures?  " 

"  I  did  n't  think  of  it  until  this  minute,"  I  said  vaguely. 

My  mind  had  suddenly  flung  new  light  across  a  piece  of  ancient 
history.  I  imagined  that  I  had  always  seen  it  thus.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  the  thing  had  never  come  into  my  mind  in  just  that  way 
before.  I  went  back  to  an  evening  in  the  winter  before  Mick 
left  England.  We  were  sitting  round  the  fire  after  dinner.  The 
rain  rattled  on  the  windows  and  bubbled  up  between  the  sashes. 


216  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

Anthony  at  the  piano  made  wonderful  minor  poetry  of  Debussy. 
A  loud  wailing  came  from  the  back  of  the  house.  We  listened 
with  an  uneasy  annoyance.  The  wailing  ended  in  quite  un- 
natural screams.  Mick  danced  with  nervousness:  he  stood  first 
on  one  leg  and  then  the  other.  "  We  ought  to  interfere,"  he 
said.  "  Should  we  interfere,  do  you  think?  " 

Before  we  could  decide  on  so  nice  a  point  the  door  was  violently 
opened,  and  our  landlady  stood  on  the  threshold.  The  screams 
must  have  been  hers.  She  tore  at  the  neck  of  her  dress  and 
clutched  her  hair.  We  had  never  suspected  her  of  Shakespearian 
tendencies.  Mick,  who  had  been  just  inside  the  door,  staggered 
back.  She  took  no  notice  of  him  and  the  scene  passed  rapidly 
through  farce  to  rank  lunacy.  Somehow  we  were  all  in  the 
kitchen.  Whether  she  took  us  by  the  hair  and  dragged  us  there 
I  do  not  now  remember.  I  do  remember  the  small  room  and 
the  circle  of  lamplight  on  the  middle  of  the  table.  A  young 
man  stood  in  the  shadows  by  the  fireplace.  Rain  was  pouring 
off  the  rim  of  his  hat  and  his  clothes  were  soaked.  He  was  thin 
and  sallow:  he  shivered  and  stared  sullenly  at  us.  An  untidy 
clothesheap  on  the  floor  moved  and  was  Mrs.  Rutherford's  daugh- 
ter. May  waited  on  us.  She  was  a  plump,  unwholesome  damsel 
with  a  fathomless  appetite  for  low  tales.  She  left  a  trail  of  lurid- 
backed  books  all  over  the  house:  they  were  pushed  under  mat- 
tresses and  fell  unexpectedly  out  of  boot  cupboards.  She  haunted 
our  bedrooms  at  dusk  with  a  duster  and  the  worst  intentions. 
Finally  she  neglected  us. 

Mrs.  Rutherford  was  soaring  untrammelled  in  an  ecstasy  of 
adjectives.  We  gathered  incredulously  that  we  were  called  in 
judgment  on  the  soaked  young  man.  He  had  stolen  her  one  ewe 
lamb:  he  had  defied  the  world  and  mocked  at  God:  he  had  se- 
duced May,  and  now  was  showing  a  wanton  reluctance  to  feeding, 
housing,  and  clothing  her  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  We  were 
public  opinion,  thrust  incontinent  in  his  downcast  face. 

We  tried  wretchedly  to  escape.  I  had  the  utmost  sympathy 
for  the  young  man.  I  heard  Anthony  murmuring,  "  You  know, 
really,  Mrs.  Rutherford,  what  can  we  do?  I  mean,  it 's  a  family 
matter,  isn't  it?"  Margaret  edged  quietly  towards  the  door. 
Somehow  we  got  ourselves  out  of  the  room,  leaving  Mick  in- 


CHAOS  217 

volved  with  Mrs.  Rutherford  in  an  incredible  discussion  of 
eugenics.  It  raged  for  an  hour  while  the  youthful  seducer  grew 
more  and  more  sullen  and  finally  fled  past  our  door,  uttering 
dishonorable  accusations.  "There,  but  for  the  grace  of  God 
.  .  ."  Anthony  began  softly. 

I  suppose  the  two  women  had  worked  up  the  scene  between 
them.  I  do  not  know  how  matters  arranged  themselves.  May 
was  not  married.  She  lived  on  at  home,  growing  more  and  more 
lethargic,  and  read  the  novels  of  Mr.  Bennett  to  develop  her 
intellect.  We  forgot  the  fantastic  scene  in  the  kitchen.  As  I 
thought  of  it  now  I  was  reminded  of  the  look  on  May  Ruther- 
ford's face  when  Margaret  slipped  out  of  the  room.  It  had  been 
malevolent.  At  the  time  I  had  hardly  given  it  a  second's  thought. 
It  presented  itself  to  me  now  as  the  most  livid  incident  in  the 
whole  preposterous  scene.  I  tried  to  fit  it  in  with  the  girl's 
senseless  insolence.  "  There 's  none  so  deaf  as  those  ..."  I 
decided  at  last  that  her  mishaps  had  cracked  her  brain. 


CHAPTER  III 

npHROUGHOUT  the  early  months  of  1914  our  classes  went 
_L  merrily  on.  Kersent  gave  less  and  less  help.  At  last  he 
could  do  nothing  for  us.  He  was  working  through  his  second  year 
as  a  research  student.  He  worked  all  day  and  half  the  night. 
When  at  odd  times  he  came  to  our  rooms  for  an  hour's  rest,  he 
could  neither  talk  nor  listen.  He  sat  in  his  chair  and  stared  in 
front  of  him  with  a  desperate  expectant  look  in  his  eyes.  He 
hated  music.  When  Anthony  played  he  got  up  and  went  away. 
"  Play  on  your  damned  piano  if  you  like  it,"  he  said,  "  but  keep 
your  fingers  off  me.  I  'm  not  a  keyboard."  Once  Anthony  per- 
suaded him  to  stay  and  then  began  a  series  of  queer  discords. 
Kersent  was  transformed.  He  screamed  and  shook  his  fists  at 
Anthony.  "You  make  me  mad,"  he  shouted.  "  I  can't  bear  it: 
you  make  me  mad." 

Afterwards  he  apologized  in  his  half-mocking,  half-diffident 
way.  "  God  help  me,"  he  said.  "  I  must  have  been  a  bear 
on  a  chain  and  danced  to  a  fiddle  in  my  last  incarnation.  I 
do  so  loathe  the  noises  men  make.  Music!  Shall  I  tell  you 
what  music  is?  You  Ve  tied  a  tin  can  on  to  your  emotions 
and  persuaded  yourself  that  its  antics  amuse  you." 

We  could  not  get  him  to  see  his  urgent  need  of  rest.  "  I  '11 
rest  next  year,"  he  promised.  "  Next  year  I  shall  be  —  will 
you  believe  it?  —  lecturer  in  Philosophy  in  my  own  college. 
Chadding  has  said  it.  I  '11  take  it  easy  for  a  year.  I  don't  want 
to  die  —  not  just  yet.  There's  things  I've  got  to  get  out  and 
written  down.  One  of  these  days  there  '11  be  a  brass  plate  on  a 
filthy  Walthamstow  court.  *  Here  was  born  Henry  Arthur  Ker- 
sent, Doctor  of  Philosophy,'  with  the  name  of  my  magnum  opus, 
and  a  verse  or  so.  '  Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  has  said,  In  hovel  born,  in  gutter  bred, 
Long  live  the  slum  from  which  I  fled.' "  He  pushed  back  his 
untidy  hair.  "  I  shall  climb  on  the  heads  of  my  fellows,"  he 

218 


CHAOS  219 

said,  "  a  ghost  from  the  land  of  the  dead.  Maybe  I  shall  dine  at 
rich  men's  tables.  I  should  n't  wonder  if  I  put  my  knife  in  my 
mouth  and  wiped  my  nose  on  my  napkin." 

I  worked  doubly  hard  to  make  up  for  his  involuntary  defec- 
tion. Now  that  I  had  almost  decided  to  follow  Mick,  my  own 
research  work  seemed  less  important.  I  did  enough  at  it  to 
satisfy  my  masters,  but  more  and  more  I  withdrew  my  living 
interest  from  it.  In  spite  of  a  certain  relief  that  the  prospect  of 
release  gave  me,  I  began  to  stagger  under  the  double  weight. 
Headaches  tormented  me.  I  had  to  drive  myself  to  get  on  with 
lectures  and  study  courses,  driven  as  I  was  by  the  urgent  crying 
hunger  of  the  men  who  came  to  learn  of  us,  poor  learners  our- 
selves. Work  accumulated  about  me.  The  thought  of  it  followed 
me  into  my  dreams.  Sometimes  even  I  could  not  work  for  that 
sense  of  the  dreadful  goading  need  to  hasten  that  was  on  me. 

And  as  if  we  had  not  enough  to  do,  Oliver  suggested  that 
we  wrote  our  own  textbooks.  The  idea  took  hold  upon  me 
until  I  began  at  last  to  feel  that  it  must  be  carried  out.  It  was  a 
bur  that  fastened  on  my  unrest.  I  lay  sleepless  in  bed  composing 
passages  of  a  preliminary  textbook  of  biology.  The  want  of 
suitable  books  had  always  hampered  us.  Our  needs  were  pe- 
culiar. We  had  to  deal  with  men  who  were  at  one  and  the  same 
time  ignorant  and  learned.  Before  young  Donnel  came  to  us  he 
had  read  voraciously  in  biological  works,  out-of-date  and  mod- 
ern, all  were  alike  to  him.  And  he  could  not  get  his  ideas  and 
his  knowledge  into  the  spoken  or  written  word  with  half  the  ease 
of  a  child  of  ten  bred  in  a  decent  home.  I  was  constantly  amazed 
at  the  extent  of  his  knowledge  of  odd  things,  and  as  constantly 
at  the  depths  of  his  ignorance  of  common  ones.  His  was  a 
normal  type  of  mind  among  our  students.  We  wanted  special 
books  for  their  special  needs.  I  began  to  think  that  with  a 
little  correlating,  revising  and  extending,  the  courses  we  had 
worked  through  with  them  would  make  excellent  textbooks  for 
new  students.  Not  only  biology  and  science  generally,  but 
literature  and  all  of  the  arts  subjects  could  be  arranged  for  in 
the  same  way.  The  others  had  had  just  the  same  trouble  as  I 
with  the  standard  books. 

We  set  to  work.     Kersent  undertook  a  history  of  Greek  phil- 


220  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

osophy  that  would  give  explanations  of  many  things  taken  for 
granted  in  all  but  the  most  elementary  books,  and  answer  ques- 
tions asked  and  answered  in  the  more  abstruse.  The  men  who 
came  to  us  wanted  the  little  explanations  and  the  abstruse  answers 
at  one  and  same  time.  Margaret  started  a  brief  comparative 
history  of  literature  that  should  not  be  crammed  with  dates  and 
names.  Oliver  and  Anthony  helped  her.  I  began  with  the  bio- 
logical textbook  of  my  imagination.  I  meant  to  go  on  to 
geology  and  psychology  next. 

A  fury  of  work  possessed  me.  I  worked  like  a  man  im- 
prisoned in  a  fallen  tunnel,  delving  frenziedly  at  the  earth. 
Work  was  my  food  and  sleep  and  the  air  I  breathed.  I  felt  an 
unnatural  inspiration.  I  wrote  at  night  until  I  was  worn  out 
and  refreshed  myself  by  writing  again.  Never  before  nor  since 
then  have  I  been  able  to  write  like  that.  The  worker  bee  is 
supposed  to  work  itself  to  death  in  quite  a  short  time.  It  is  a 
perfection  of  the  communal  ideal  which  I  cannot  admire.  I  was 
none  the  less  imitating  it  to  the  best  of  my  ability.  A  streak 
of  madness  must  have  showed  itself  in  me.  I  took  to  work 
as  my  grandfather  took  to  destruction  and  perhaps  in  much  the 
same  frame  of  mind. 

In  March  two  of  our  books  were  printing.  Margaret's  uncle 
lent  her  the  money  for  the  initial  cost.  We  meant  to  sell  the 
books  at  cost  price,  and  pay  him  back  so,  bit  by  bit. 

One  maggot  begets  another.  We  were  bubbling  over  with  the 
things  we  wanted  to  say  and  could  not  fit  into  textbooks.  Pearls 
of  wisdom  were  being  lost  to  the  swine  because  we  were  not  able 
to  cast  to  them.  We  conceived  "  The  Dawn."  The  mental  effort 
that  produced  the  remarkable  title  carried  us  on  to  the  poster 
that  advertised  it.  Streaks  of  red  in  a  neutral  sky  and  an  un- 
couth man  with  a  pickax  rising  from  the  ground:  the  light 
shone  on  his  lifted  hand.  We  painted  it  ourselves  on  wrapping 
paper  and  pasted  it  on  friendly  house  walls  and  palings.  I  saw 
one  of  our  posters  after  a  rain  storm.  It  looked  like  a  civil  war. 
After  that  we  displayed  it  on  boards  slung  on  the  shoulders  of 
amateur  sandwichmen.  I  took  my  odd  holidays  between  boards. 

I  wrote  a  good  deal  of  "  The  Dawn "  myself.  It  had  four 
pages.  As  educators  ourselves,  we  had  much  to  say  on  the 


CHAOS  221 

question  of  education.  We  had  also  a  page  of  Eikonoklast  notes 
in  which  we  were  ironically  severe  with  well-known  politicians 
and  editors.  We  printed  a  poem  or  two  of  Oliver's  in  each 
number.  "  You  'd  better  keep  your  copies,"  he  said.  "  I  sha'n't 
have  those  poems  reprinted.  One  of  these  days  an  old  paper 
with  them  in  will  be  worth  a  lot  of  money." 

But  we  were  most  concerned  with  education.  We  tried  to  set 
ajar  doors  through  which  workers  would  get  a  glimpse  of  the 
things  they  missed  because  their  eyes  and  ears  and  minds  had  not 
been  opened  to  them.  The  old  Roman  wine  was  not  for  them; 
nor  Egyptian  magic,  nor  the  morning  song  of  Greece,  nor  medie- 
val glamour.  They  were  men  living  in  the  cellars  of  a  palace 
more  wonderful  than  any  built  in  Babylon,  poor  blind  things 
that  never  saw  the  sun. 

We  printed  "The  Dawn"  ourselves.  Just  ten  numbers  of 
it  appeared  at  irregular  intervals.  We  had  the  free  use  of  a 
printing  press  that  was  owned  by  a  handful  of  cranks  with  a 
passion  for  seeing  themselves  in  type.  They  had  money,  and 
wanted  men  to  think  like  gods  and  eat  like  monkeys.  These 
things  marked  their  difference  from  ourselves. 

There  were  two  compositors  among  our  students.  One  of 
them  undertook  to  set  up  the  type  and  supervise  the  whole  work. 
The  rest  of  us  helped  him  to  the  best  of  our  ability.  We  wrought 
at  night  after  our  classes  were  over.  Our  compositor  was  a  cheer- 
ful little  man  with  an  incorrigibly  faithless  wife.  As  he  worked 
he  told  us  of  her  whims.  He  read  aloud  from  the  proof  in  front 
of  him.  "  What  is  to  be  expected  .  .  .  She  came  back  again  last 
night  .  .  .  of  a  class  of  sixty  children  ...  I  opened  the  door  and 
there  she  stood  ..  .  .  drilled  into  automatic  obedience  ...  it  was 
pouring  with  rain.  She  was  soaked  through  .  .  .  but  that  they 
will  be  trained  to  respond  .  .  .  *  You  'd  better  come  in,'  I  said 
.  .  .  to  any  mob  cry  ...  So  she  came  in  and  sat  down.  .  .  . 
We  have  been  a  race  of  adventurers  .  .  .  *  You  Ve  let  them 
brasses  get  awful,'  she  says  .  .  .  We  are  still  adventurers  .  .  . 
Next  minute  she  was  down  on  her  knees  polishing  at  'em  with  a 
bit  of  rag  .  .  .  but  you  are  quenching  that  flame  .  .  .  Soon  's 
she  'd  finished,  *  Now  let 's  have  supper,'  she  says.  *  I  'm  starv- 
ing.' She  opens  the  cupboard.  '  Humph,  you  've  been  doing 


222  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

yourself  well.  Cheese  and  sardines,  and  what's  that  —  butter? 
You  ain't  missed  me  much !  '  '  Well,  my  dear,'  says  I,  '  you  been 
off  and  then  come  back  to  your  deserted  hearthstone  five  times 
now.  You  can't  expect  me  to  miss  you  with  the  same  anguish 
I  used  to.  I  was  always  one  to  suit  myself  to  my  surroundings.' 
She  took  me  up  sharp.  *  Seems  I  shall  have  to  stay  at  home.' " 

My  memories  of  "  The  Dawn  "  and  its  joyous  enthusiasms  are 
all  mixed  up  with  the  smell  of  the  warm  damp  cellar  and  the 
amours  of  the  compositor's  wife.  She  was  a  spry,  lively  woman, 
her  husband  said,  and  a  pleasure  to  have  about  the  house.  When 
she  was  about  the  house.  He  said  that  he  always  knew  when  she 
was  getting  unsettled  because  she  mended  up  all  his  socks,  and 
baked  a  supply  of  bread  and  pies.  She  did  n't  want  to  have 
strange  women  messing  up  her  things  when  she  was  away. 

"  The  Dawn  "  was  the  only  part  of  our  work  that  gave  us  pure 
delight.  Whether  it  is  right  to  gratify  one's  partialities  at  the 
public  cost  I  do  not  know.  But  it  is  a  practice  not  confined  to 
the  editors  of  revolutionary  flit-by-nights,  nor  indeed  to  editors. 

We  sold  "  The  Dawn  "  at  street  corners,  and  outside  theaters 
and  public-houses.  With  unappreciated  generosity  we  presented 
a  copy  to  every  socialist  branch  in  London.  We  crept  about 
streets  at  night  and  shot  copies  through  the  letter  boxes  of  drab 
houses.  We  paraded  the  Strand  and  the  streets  round  the  Bank 
and  sold  to  the  beautiful  young  men  who  crowded  the  pavements 
at  the  luncheon  hour.  Jack  Chamberlayn,  with  our  posters  slung 
on  his  back  and  front,  stood  outside  his  Aunt  Jane's  house  and 
thrust  the  paper  at  her  when  she  came  out  to  her  brougham.  She 
bought  all  he  had,  and  gave  him  the  ten-pound  note  he  de- 
manded for  the  cause  to  get  him  to  go  away. 

We  wrote  at  it,  weary-eyed  and  heavy-headed,  and  roared  with 
laughter  at  our  own  wit  and  sense.  Even  the  unimpassioned 
Anthony  wrote  articles  in  a  style  heavy  with  images  like  the 
bowed  white  branches  of  the  may. 

In  March  and  April  we  made  ourselves  eight  "  Dawns."  On 
May  Day  we  sold  the  ninth  in  Hyde  Park,  and  eleven  days  later 
we  printed  the  tenth  and  last. 

I  knew  it  would  be  the  last.  As  we  came  up  out  of  the  cellar 
I  stumbled  dizzily  over  the  doorstep. 


CHAOS  223 

In  the  dark  a  finger  had  traced  one  narrow  path  of  light,  a 
field  of  asphodel  between  the  cloudy  hills. 

My  eyes  burned  and  my  legs  shook  under  me.  I  took  hold 
on  Chamberlayn's  arm.  We  went  a  few  streets  in  silence. 

"  You  're  ill,"  he  said  abruptly,  "  you  're  damnably  ill.  Don't 
you  know  you  are?  " 

I  thought  he  looked  so  queer  with  his  hat  down  to  his  eyes 
and  his  overcoat  buttoned  up  round  them  that  I  stood  and 
laughed  at  him.  The  tears  poured  down  my  face.  I  leaned 
against  a  wall  and  wiped  them  away. 

"  You  look  so  damned  funny,"  I  gasped 

"  Not  half  so  funny  as  you  do,  you  whey-faced  hyena.  Here, 
stand  up.  Do  you  want  us  to  be  run  in  jail  for  my  Aunt  Jane 
to  bail  out?  I  '11  go  home  with  you." 

The  cool  air  sobered  me  before  we  reached  Herne  Hill. 
Chamberlayn  hurried  me  into  bed.  I  fell  instantly  into  a  half 
delirious  dream  in  which  I  ran  after  trains  and  walked  the  streets 
of  an  unknown  city  in  a  frenzied  eagerness  to  reach  some  place 
or  find  some  person.  I  opened  my  eyes  for  a  second  on  Chamber- 
layn. He  stood  beside  my  bed  with  a  cup  in  his  hand.  Some 
one  said,  "  Better  let  him  sleep.  Drink  it  yourself,"  and  I  was 
off  again  on  my  anguished  search. 

I  woke  about  nine  o'clock  in  a  weariness  of  the  flesh  worse 
than  any  I  had  ever  endured.  My  brain  sagged  in  my  head. 
A  cold  bath  left  me  half  suffocated.  I  wanted  cups  of  tea.  I 
went  downstairs  and  demanded  them. 

"  Get  back  to  bed,  you  maniac,"  Anthony  shouted.  "  I  'm  go- 
ing for  a  doctor." 

"  I  '11  not  go  back  to  bed.     It 's  too  exhausting,"  I  answered. 
"  And  if  you  make  an  ass  of  yourself  by  going  for  a  doctor,  you 
can  put  out  your  own  interfering  tongue  at  him.     I  sha'n't  be 
here.     I  'm  going  out." 
"  Let 's  run  him  upstairs." 

Chamberlayn  shook  his  head.  *'  I  Ve  a  better  idea.  Will  you 
come  out  of  town  with  me,  Joy?  You  might  just  as  well.  You 
can't  do  anything  in  your  present  state.  We'll  go  down  to 
my  cottage  at  Shenley.  At  least,  it 's  not  mine.  It 's  my  cousin's, 
but  he's  somewhere  in  West  Africa  catching  fever  and  snakes. 


224  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

It 's  mine  while  he  's  not  here.  Mrs.  Hurford,  who  looks  after 
it,  will  take  care  of  you  like  a  mother.  We  '11  set  you  up  in  no 
time."  He  got  up  from  the  table.  "  Oliver  can  pack  you  a  bag." 
"  I  '11  think  about  it,"  I  said.  "  It 's  decent  of  you.  I  '11  let 
you  know  to-morrow.  I  can't  come  to-day.  I  've  got  to  fix 
some  things  at  King's." 

I  held  on  to  my  point  with  an  insane  obstinacy.  At  last  he 
gave  up  talking  and  let  me  have  my  way.  It  was  Saturday,  and 
none  of  us  had  any  reason  for  going  up  to  college,  but  Anthony 
pretended  an  urgent  need  of  books  and  came  with  me.  I  was 
so  annoyed  by  his  pestilential  good  nature  that  I  would  not  speak 
to  him. 

We  went  into  the  common  room  and  sat  down.  It  was  empty 
save  for  a  few  students  playing  a  very  poor  game  of  poker  in  a 
state  of  fearful  excitement.  I  tried  to  think  what  I  had  to  do. 
A  new  note  in  Anthony's  voice  caught  my  attention.  I  began  to 
listen.  I  suppose  he  was  talking  to  distract  my  mind.  But 
he  had  come  to  something  that  actively  disturbed  him.  He  was 
speaking  with  a  troubled  emphasis. 

"  You  were  n't  in  when  I  got  back  from  Purley  yesterday 
afternoon,"  he  said.  "  I  wished  you  had  been.  I  wanted  to  talk 
to  you."  He  hesitated.  "  Things  are  not  right  down  there,"  he 
said. 

I  glared  at  him.  "  Say  what  you  mean,  for  goodness'  sake. 
What 's  not  right?  " 

"  Can't  you  see  that  I  'm  trying  to  get  it  straight  in  my  own 
head?  It's  difficult  to  say.  You'd  see  it  all  right  if  you  were 
there.  I  've  guessed  at  it  before,  but  after  staying  with  them  for 
a  whole  fortnight  I  'm  beyond  guessing.  I  know  there 's  trouble 
ahead.  The  wretched  part  of  it  is  that  there  's  nothing  any  one 
can  do." 

"  If  you  'd  tell  me "  I  began. 

"  I  don't  see  that  there  's  anything  you  can  do.  You  might 
speak  to  Margaret.  I  spoke  to  her,  but  I  'm  not  sure  that  I 
did  n't  do  more  harm  than  good.  I  've  made  her  self-conscious, 
and  that  fool  is  bound  to  see  it,  and  put  it  down  to  the  wrong 
cause.  He  watches  her.  He  asks  her  questions  and  tries  to  trip 
her  up  in  her  answers.  I  could  n't  make  it  out  at  first.  I  thought 


CHAOS  225 

it  was  pure  ill-temper.  I  could  have  kicked  him  into  the  road 
more  than  once.  Of  course,  Margaret  can  be  damned  irritating 
when  she  likes.  She  's  so  fiendishly  obstinate  over  little  things." 

"  We  know  that  —  but  she  '11  give  way  on  most  things  for°the 
sake  of  peace." 

"  Does  n't  make  up  for  the  times  she  '11  not  give  way  a  fraction 
of  an  inch.  Still  —  it 's  Ainslie  and  not  Margaret  who  's  respon- 
sible for  the  uneasy  atmosphere  of  that  household." 

"Oh,  atmosphere,"  I  said  indifferently.  "You  made  your 
own." 

"  Yes,  I  thought  that.  But  after  a  while  I  knew  I  was  n't  mis- 
taken. He  did  for  himself  so  far  as  I  'm  concerned  when  he 
tried  to  question  me  in  an  off-hand  sort  of  way  about  Margaret 
and  our  red-headed  friend.  I  just  about  kept  my  hands  off  him 
when  it  broke  over  me  what  he  was  getting  at." 

The  walls  of  the  common  room  swayed  backwards  and  for- 
wards.    I  turned  my  chair  round  and  stared  out  of  the  open 
door.     Anthony  put  his  hand  on  my  knee. 
"  Say  if  I  'm  boring  you,  and  I  '11  drop  it." 
"  No,  go  on." 

"  It 's  worried  me  rather.  You  see,  I  made  a  bad  blunder. 
Ainslie  made  me  so  mad  that  I  was  n't  thinking  straight  at  the 
time.  He  'd  taken  up  something  I  said  to  him,  and  gone  to 
Margaret  with  it.  It  was  at  breakfast  yesterday  morning.  '  I 
thought,'  he  said,  in  a  ghastly  playful  fashion,  'that  you  wrote 
me  Anthony  and  Oliver  were  leaving  Herne  Hill  on  the  Saturday 
—  that  week  you  stayed  there  in  January.'  Margaret  looked  at 
him.  '  I  don't  remember,'  she  said.  *  I  may  have  written  so. 
I  thought  they  were  leaving  then.'  Ainslie  was  excited.  'An- 
thony did,'  he  told  her  quickly,  '  but  he  says  he  left  Hearne 
behind  and  the  slacker  never  got  to  Scarborough  until  the  Mon- 
day night.'  I  was  furious  at  having  had  the  amateur  detective 
played  off  on  me.  Margaret  stared  at  the  pair  of  us.  '  I  must 
have  told  you  some  time  since,  that  Oliver  never  left  Herne 
Hill  until  the  Sunday.  I  went  back  there  on  Saturday  night,  but 
he  was  in  bed,  and  I  did  n't  know  he  was  in  the  house.  The  next 
morning  he  walked  into  the  room  and  we  gave  each  other  the 
surprise  of  a  lifetime.  I  must  have  told  you.'  Ainslie  pretended 


226  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

to  be  thinking  aloud.  'Left  on  Sunday?  It  took  him  a  long 
time  to  reach  Scarborough.'  Margaret  lost  her  temper.  '  What 
do  you  want?  '  she  said.  'A  Bradshaw?  I  didn't  go  running 
after  Oliver  and  pushing  him  into  trains.  Ask  him  what  he  did 
with  his  time  if  you  want  to  know.' " 

Anthony  laughed  shortly.  "  This  is  where  I  make  a  fool 
of  myself.  We  finished  breakfast,  and  Margaret  slipped  after 
Keith  into  the  hall.  I  heard  her  say,  '  So  sorry  I  was  cross, 
sweetheart.'  When  she  came  back  into  the  room  I  told  her  right 
out  what  was  the  matter  with  her  precious  husband.  *  You  must 
have  seen  it,'  I  said.  'He's  jealous  of  Oliver.'  Ton  my  word, 
she  hadn't  seen  it.  She  got  hot.  'You  can't  think  that?  '  'I 
do  think  it,'  I  said.  I  knew  I  'd  done  the  wrong  thing  as  soon  as 
I  'd  said  it.  Next  time  Ainslie  spoke  of  Oliver  she  turned  peony- 
colored,  and  was  annoyed  with  him.  Do  you  suppose  he  did  n't 
notice?  He  built  a  three-volume  tragedy  on  that  blush  in  as 
many  seconds." 

Anthony  got  up  and  kicked  a  chair  viciously  out  of  his  way. 
"  Any  one  can  see  the  fool  does  n't  do  it  out  of  malice.  He  's 
fond  enough  of  her.  Only  he  can't  let  her  alone.  He  must  be 
forever  picking  over  what  she 's  done  or  is  doing,  to  see  if  there 's 
anything  in  it  that  might  be  an  offense  against  him."  He  grinned. 
"There  ought  to  be  a  middle  way  in  married  dignity,  but  of 
the  two  extremes  I  prefer  the  manner  of  our  little  compositor. 
Of  course,  Ainslie  's  hampered  by  his  liberal  professions.  He 
can't  say  to  Margaret,  'What  the  devil  were  you  doing  that 
Saturday  and  Sunday?  '  He  has  to  sneak  round  corners,  and 
try  to  manceuver  her  into  a  compromising  position.  Under  such 
circumstances  he  's  bound  to  be  rewarded  by  a  sight  of  the  com- 
promising attitude  sooner  or  later.  Attitude  is  all  a  matter  of 
the  angle  of  vision.  And  if  you  're  not  looking  straight  .  .  ." 

I  was  tired  of  watching  the  corridor  ambling  past  the  door  like 
an  amiable  snake.  I  turned  on  Anthony. 

"  What  d  'you  want  to  tell  me  all  this  for?  "  I  shouted.  "  What 
is  it  to  me  if  they  destroy  each  other?  " 

I  rushed  out  of  the  common  room.  The  poker  players  fixed 
amazed  eyes  on  me. 

Half-way  along  the  corridor  I  was  struck  by  a  sense  of  incon- 


CHAOS  227 

gruity.  The  old  walks  echoed  to  my  hurrying  feet.  In  the  si- 
lence I  was  a  detached,  intrusive  noise.  My  unrest  shrank, 
abashed:  it  became  an  angle  of  fire  and  hid  itself  between  my 
eyes,  its  apex  in  the  center  of  my  brain.  I  walked  slowly.  On 
the  stairs  I  met  Chadding,  Kersent's  professor.  He  stopped. 

"Ah,  Hearne,"  he  began,  and  then  paused.  "You  look  quite 
unwell."  He  fumbled  at  his  glasses.  "Most  unwell.  Do  you 
work  too  hard?  Perhaps  you  have  too  many  outside  interests. 
Youth  will  try  to  serve  two  masters."  He  chuckled  like  an  asth- 
matic bird.  "Two  masters?  Nearer  ten,  nearer  ten." 

I  remembered  what  Kerseht  had  told  us  about  Chadding  and  the 
invitation  to  dinner.  I  longed  to  take  the  old  snob  by  his  broad- 
cloth tails  and  dangle  him  over  the  iron  bannisters.  I  could  see 
his  plump  little  legs  shooting  out  frantically,  and  his  arms  grasp- 
ing for  a  hold.  I  laughed. 

"  Ah,  you  are  amused,"  he  said  amiably.  "  You  don't  believe 
what  I  say." 

"  I  was  only  laughing  because  you  are  such  a  fool,"  I  explained. 
His  surprise  was  so  preposterous  that  it  annoyed  me. 

"  You  are  not  yourself,  Mr.  Hearne,"  he  said.  "  We  will  try 
to  overlook  this." 

He  swelled  on  to  the  next  step.     I  blocked  his  way. 

"No  more  are  you,"  I  said.  "What  is  yourself?  Is  it  the 
white  podgy  you  under  the  broadcloth  and  the  jaeger  vest? 
Good  Lord,  how  funny  you  must  look.  Doesn't  it  make  your 
wife  laugh?  " 

He  spluttered  down  my  neck. 

"  No,  don't  do  that,"  I  said.  "  This  is  fearfully  interesting. 
Let's  think  it  out.  Are  you  those  ridiculous  books  you  write 
about  the  Abstract  Truth  and  the  Transcendental  Reality?  Did 
you  hatch  them  out  in  your  mind?  What  a  thing  is  this  Truth 
that  can  arch  its  back  in  the  sky,  and  lay  eggs  in  a  professor's 
brain!  Do  you  believe  in  word-magic,  professor?  Oh,  don't 
be  offended:  wiser  folk  than  you  built  temples  on  the  banks  of 
the  Nile  and  raised  themselves  a  protean  shield  of  names.  What 
a  terrible  power  in  the  words  you  evoke  that  they  come  in  the 
end  to  mastering  their  master!  Tell  me  now  — could  you  push 
any  of  those  words  back  into  the  nothingness  whence  you  called 


228  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

them?  There  's  an  ant  or  a  beetle  or  something  that  lifts  a  few 
times  its  own  weight.  Poor  little  Chadding-ant,  staggering  about 
with  Transcendental  Reality  on  his  back,  looking  for  a  hole  to 
hide  it  in!  Old  servant  of  words.  Only  words,  Chadding,  for 
after  all,  you  never  saw  the  Shining  Reality,  did  you?  There 
have  been  men  said  they  saw  it,  but  they  were  lean  men  with 
souls  of  flame.  You  are  a  little  fat  man,  and  your  soul  is  full 
of  whey." 

He  seemed  to  squeeze  words  out  of  his  indignation.  "  I  will 
rouse  the  building.  I  will  have  you  publicly  disgraced.  You  are 
drunk,  sir.  Drunk  as  a  dog.  Let  me  pass." 

"  No,  no,"  I  said.  I  felt  that  I  was  being  very  cunning. 
"  You  sha'n't  get  away.  If  I  let  you  go  you  '11  snap  at  my 
legs  as  I  go  down  the  stairs,  you  old  crocodile.  I  must  tell 
you  who  you  are,  and  then  you  '11  be  powerless.  If  you  're  not 
those  books,  what  are  you?  Somewhere  one  must  get  at  the  soul 
of  you.  When  you  pray.  .  .  .  Do  you  pray  to  Abstract  Reality, 
Chadding,  on  your  knees  by  your  little  bed,  and  then  get  in  be- 
side your  merry  wife?  Oh,  what  a  queer  little  object  you  do 
look  then,  to  be  sure.  No,  damn  it,  that  can't  be  you.  It 's  too 
funny.  A  soul  can't  be  ridiculous,  and  would  n't  be  uxorious. 
I  must  find  you.  I  '11  tear  off  the  coverings." 

I  believe  the  poor  little  beast  thought  I  was  going  to  undress 
him  there  and  then.  He  raised  a  quavering  cry.  There  was 
hardly  a  soul  in  the  building,  and  no  one  came  running  to  his  aid. 
I  plucked  at  his  sleeve.  His  eyes  bulged  and  mottled  patches  of 
color  appeared  under  his  skin. 

"What's  this?"  I  said.  "First  shell  — scaly  jealousy. 
Jealousy  of  colleagues,  jealousy  of  the  rich  men  who  patronize 
you.  Should  n't  let  'em,  my  boy.  Uphold  the  dignity  of  scholar- 
ship. Old  Croesus  hands  you  out  his  second  best  in  wines,  and 
offers  you  a  cigar,  and  bets  you  don't  get  cigars  like  this  out  of 
philosophy.  Your  wife  pesters  you  for  dresses  like  Mrs.  Croesus, 
and  wishes  she  'd  married  a  man  with  less  learning  and  more  cash. 
Your  little  soul  bubbles  within  you.  You  rush  to  scratch  the  eyes 
of  your  brother  monkey  up  the  other  philosophic  tree.  Oh, 
fie,  professor,  where  was  your  scholar's  calm  when  you  called 
his  cosmic  system  a  pernicious  and  nauseating  fraud?  Aren't 


CHAOS  229 

your  coconuts  as  juicy  as  his?  What 's  this?  You  shock  me  — 
what  makes  you  think  your  wife  deceives  you?  The  respectable 
partner  of  your  connubial  joys  seeks  other  arms  when  privileged 
to  sport  in  yours!  Nonsense,  man.  It's  absurd.  No,  you  don't 
think  that.  Your  imagination  wants  toning  up.  It 's  going 
bad :  try  our  septic  wash :  impurities  vanish  before  it.  What 's 
this?  Your  dignity  in  danger?  You  think  your  daughter  sneers 
at  you,  and  flouts  you  behind  your  back.  Ah,  you  mistake. 
She  reveres  you.  She  worships  all  your  attitude;  your  habits 
are  lovely  in  her  sight.  She  loves  the  way  you  thorough-clean 
your  ears  with  a  corner  of  your  handkerchief  in  moments  of 
inertia;  and  your  legs  surging  against  the  trousers  you  will  have 
cut  so  tight.  Now  where  are  we?  Who  is  this  stately  old 
gentleman  with  the  god-like  brow,  and  the  noble,  kindly  bearing? 
You  don't  think  that's  what  you  look  like!  No!  Not  really? 
Ha !  Ha !  Body  o'  me  —  skin  after  skin.  I  should  never  come 
to  the  end  of  them.  Dignified  jealousy,  fear,  self-adoration, 
bashful  lusts,  cancerous  crusts  of  prejudice  —  layer  on  layer. 
Is  this  the  last?  It  must  be.  A  door,  and  the  door-plate  reads 
'Truth.'  Now  I  shall  see  You.  Come  out,  thou  naked  soul. 
Come  unashamed.  Shall  He  that  cares  for  sparrows  forget 
thee?  Why,  the  place  is  empty.  Clean  empty.  Did  a  spider 
scuttle  into  that  corner?  What  are  you,  then ?  All  hail,  Abstract 
Nonentity,  Transcendental  Husk.  I  've  named  you  now,  so  let 
me  go!  " 

I  went  stumbling  down  the  stone  steps,  roaring  and  shaking 
with  laughter. 

Anthony  met  Chadding  coming  along  the  corridor.  Tears  of 
rage  or  mortification  were  in  his  eyes.  "I've  been  insulted," 
he  stammered,  "  shamefully  insulted.  Mr.  Hearne  .  .  ."  When 
later,  he  was  told  of  my  illness,  he  accepted  that  in  explanation 
of  the  incredible  scene.  "The  poor  fellow  was  off  his  head," 
he  said.  But  he  never  forgave  me. 

Was  I  off  my  head  to  behave  like  that  to  an  old  man,  no 
meaner,  no  more  self-seeking,  no  more  fearful  of  opinion  than 
the  rest  of  us?  Or  did  I  but  hold  up  to  him  the  glass  of  my  own 

soul?  f 

I  stood  in  the  hall,  trying  to  think  what  I  must  do  before 


230  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

I  could  go  with  Chamberlayn.  I  saw  him  standing  in  the  en- 
trance. "  I  've  got  a  taxi,"  he  said.  "  Coming  for  a  ride?  " 

I  followed  him  into  the  car.  "  Just  a  run  to  clear  my  brain. 
I  've  no  end  to  do." 

Anthony,  fearing  heaven  knows  what  after  his  meeting  with 
Chadding,  had  rushed  down  the  stairs  in  search  of  me,  and  out 
into  the  quad.  Chamberlayn  waved  a  reassuring  hand  in  what 
might  have  been  the  direction  of  Shenley,  and  shouted  — "  See 
you  to-morrow." 

We  dodged  along  the  Strand.  I  remember  thinking  that  I  was 
dead,  and  that  Chamberlayn  was  a  jackal-headed  god.  Long 
before  we  reached  Shenley  I  was  an  unconscious  log.  They 
carried  me  into  the  cottage  and  upstairs  to  bed.  It  was  eight 
weeks  before  I  made  my  first  feeble  journey  downstairs  again. 


CHAPTER  IV 

I  MUST  try  to  be  fair  to  Keith  Ainslie.  I  feel  that  I  am  likely 
to  distort  him  and  his  motives  in  the  very  effort  of  trying  to 
understand  them.  Moreover  I  cannot  be  prying  into  his  heart. 
I  am  neither  a  confessor  nor  a  psychological  haberdasher  in  the 
manner  of  our  friend  Bloomer.  The  professional  augurs  of  an 
older  age  drew  omens  from  entrails.  Civilization  has  carried 
us  past  that.  We  content  ourselves  now  with  making  books  from 
them. 

I  want  to  leave  Ainslie  the  remnants  of  dignity  that  he  left 
himself,  and  gathered  round  his  nakedness.  When  I  call  him 
to  mind,  I  feel  a  thrill  of  half -realized  misery:  I  am  abashed 
before  this  strange  sensing  of  his  grief.  I  want  to  shield  him 
from  any  knowledge  of  his  self-betrayal.  I  do  not  want  to  feel 
his  suffering. 

Perhaps  this  instinctive  shrinking  of  mine  accounts  for  the 
persistence  with  which  he  eludes  me.  I  cannot  now  tell  you 
anything  about  him  except  that  he  played  the  fool  poorly  and 
suffered  for  it.  I  remember  things  he  did  and  things  he  said,  but 
I  remember  them  as  of  one  dead,  separate  disjointed  memories, 
with  no  sense  of  a  living  personal  unity  to  hold  them  together. 

He  brought  misery  on  himself  and  on  Margaret.  With  his 
own  hands  he  destroyed  the  fair  house  of  their  love  that  she  had 
set  so  high.  And  yet  I  am  grieved  for  him,  and  for  the  ruin  he 
wrought.  I  do  not  doubt  that  every  injury  he  did  Margaret  turned 
and  rent  him  in  equal  measure.  Neither  do  I  doubt  that  he 
loved  her  with  a  backward-glancing  tenderness  for  their  idyll. 
And  in  spite  of  love,  in  spite  of  his  impulses  to  a  frankness  that 
might  have  saved  them,  he  let  his  secret  resentment  carry  him 
uncurbed  to  disaster.  He  seemed  driven.  Pride  had  a  share 
in  that,  but  only  a  share.  Add  the  awkward  sense  of  estrange- 
ment from  Margaret  that  waxed  and  grew  strong,  feeding  on  itself. 
He  persisted  in  his  way  as  a  wilful  child  persists  in  naughtiness 

231 


232  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

through  some  queer  kink  in  the  mind  that  will  not  let  it  yield 
to  its  unacknowledged  longing  for  repentance  and  forgiveness. 

While  I  lay  passing  from  delirium  to  unconsciousness  and 
waking  to  delirium  again,  their  play  played  itself  to  an  end. 
I  saw  nothing  of  it.  I  know  of  it  only  what  Anthony  told  me, 
sitting  beside  my  couch  in  the  small  white-washed  bedroom  of 
the  cottage.  He  had  left  the  aeroplane  factory  and  gone  back 
to  the  farm.  He  came  down  and  stayed  nearly  a  month  at  the 
cottage  when  I  was  getting  better.  He  had  not  meant  to  tell 
me  then.  But  from  Oliver's  incautious  silences  I  understood 
that  something  was  happening  to  Margaret.  I  insisted  upon 
having  the  whole  story.  **  You  've  got  to  know,"  Anthony  said 
at  last.  "  I  suppose  it 's  better  to  tell  you  than  to  leave  you 
speculating  on  things." 

As  he  talked,  I  imagined  that  I  saw  between  his  abrupt,  sig- 
nificant phrases  the  shadows  of  passions  and  longings  that 
fought  and  drew  back  and  closed  again  in  a  phantom  struggle. 
He  frowned  and  picked  his  words.  He  had  heard  the  beating 
wings  of  the  hidden  wrestlers.  He  was  disturbed  and  rather 
resentful. 

On  the  day  I  went  to  Shenley  in  the  taxi  he  had  tea  with 
Margaret  in  the  Museum  cafe.  She  impressed  him  as  having 
suddenly  and  strangely  lost  confidence  in  herself.  She  was 
tired.  The  lifting  vitality  had  gone  from  her  voice  and  her  pose. 
He  told  her  that  Chamberlayn  had  taken  me  to  Shenley.  "A 
week  or  two  there  will  do  him  good,"  she  said  listlessly. 
"  There  's  nothing  serious,  is  there?  Only  overwork." 

"That's  all,"  Anthony  agreed  doubtfully.  "He's  rather 
queer,  though.  He  'd  said  or  done  something  to  Chadding- 
bird  this  morning.  The  honey-mouthed  old  hypocrite  was  fear- 
fully upset." 

**  We  've  printed  the  last  '  Dawn,'  "  Margaret  said. 

"  Until  Joy  comes  back." 

"  The  last  of  all,"  she  insisted.  "  We  were  fools  to  start  it. 
Joy  has  half  killed  himself  with  work.  We  must  carry  on  as  best 
we  can  at  Hammersmith  while  he  is  away.  If  he  's  going  to  be 
away  long  .  .  ." 

She  sat  looking  absently  at  two  Frenchmen  who  were  talking 


CHAOS  233 

at  each  other  across  the  next  table  with  every  appearance  of 
overmastering  excitement.,  To  them  a  colorless  Englishman. 
They  addressed  him  in  overfluent  English.  "Ah,  dear  friend, 
how  much  we  have  interested  ourselves  in  your  wonderful  Mu- 
seum. It  is  superb,  but  it  is  sorrowful.  To  think  that  the  joy 
and  beauty  of  the  Greeks  —  those  wonderful  children  —  should 
come  in  the  end,  dismembered  like  Osiris,  to  a  house  in  Blooms- 
bury." 

"  Eh?  "  said  the  Englishman,  "  why  not?  " 
Margaret  glanced  at  Anthony,  smiling  faintly.  She  turned 
her  eyes  from  the  too-reflective  foreigner.  "  I  wish,"  she  said 
abruptly,  "  you  'd  keep  Oliver  away  from  Keith  for  a  while." 
She  made  a  nervous  gesture.  "  I  know  it  sounds  hateful.  He  's 
an  old  friend.  A  dear  friend.  But  I  must  get  things  straight. 
Somehow  I  must  get  them  straight.  I  must  try  and  get  Keith 
to  talk.  Things  are  impossible  as  they  are." 

Anthony  began  a  vague  apology.  She  frowned.  "  Oh,  don't. 
How  could  it  be  your  fault?  I  should  have  seen  it  for  mjself 
in  the  end.  Only  I  never  thought.  And  I  'm  glad  to  have  it 
plain."  Her  voice  halted,  and  she  straightened  herself  wearily  in 
the  comfortless  chair.  When  the  Museum  authorities  decided  on 
concession  to  the  horrid  fact  of  scholarly  stomachs,  they  took 
care  to  concede  as  little  as  possible  to  that  doubtless  atrophied 
organ. 

While  Anthony  sought  for  words,  she  began  again  slowly. 
"  I  seem  to  have  made  a  failure  of  things.  I  can't  understand 
why  or  how."  She  smiled.  "  I  've  kept  my  share  of  the  bargain. 
One  ought  to  keep  one  's  bargain,  eh?  But  it  is  only  just,  surely, 
to  expect  some  one  else  to  keep  the  other  half  of  the  pact.  I  must 
have  failed  somewhere." 

Her  glance  wandered  to  the  next  table  again.  The  Englishman 
had  entered  into  a  solemn  discussion  of  automatic  pianos.  "  Oh, 
yes,"  he  said  loudly,  "  in  a  few  years  there  will  not  be  an  or- 
dinary piano  made.  All  the  tones  and  half-tones  of  expression 
will  be  faithfully  reproduced  by  the  record.  There  will  be  no 
need  for  hands.  Hands  stumble.  The  mechanical  piano  never 
will." 

His  listeners  nodded  their  heads.     "The  piano  is  a  dreadful 


234  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

instrument,"  one  mused.  "The  apotheosis  of  beer  gardens, 
drawing-rooms  in  the  suburbs,  picture  palaces  and  mission-rooms. 
But  you  are  too  optimistic,  my  dear  friend.  Alas,  if  there  were 
no  more  pianos,  with  what  would  your  English  misses  amuse 
their  leisure  time?  " 

Margaret  laughed  outright.  "  Come,"  she  said.  "  Let 's  go 
before  I  disgrace  myself  any  more.  Things  aren't  so  bad  as 
you  might  think,  listening  to  my  feeble  moans.  I  shall  come 
through  alright." 

She  walked  through  the  Egyptian  Gallery,  with  a  smile  for 
Amen  Hetep  III.  "You'll  come  up  to  Herne  Hill  now?  "  An- 
thony said.  Margaret  hesitated.  It  was  unusual  for  her  to 
be  in  town  at  the  week-end.  Keith  never  went  to  the  factory  on 
Saturday,  and  we  had  arranged  the  classes  so  that  we  could  do 
without  her  that  day.  "Keith  went  off  early  this  morning,"  she 
said  at  last.  "  He,  expected  to  get  back  about  seven.  I  '11  come 
up  for  an  hour." 

They  reached  Herne  Hill  soon  after  five.  Through  the  open 
window  of  the  sitting-room  they  caught  sight  of  Ainslie,  sitting 
there  alone.  Margaret  gave  a  little  gasp.  She  hurried  indoors. 

"  Why,  Keith,"  she  said,  "  why  did  n't  you  say  you  would  be 
here?  " 

"  I  knew  you  would  come,"  he  told  her  somberly.  At  this  mo- 
ment Anthony  had  a  queer  foreboding  of  trouble. 

"  It 's  just  a  chance  that  I  came." 

Keith  shrugged  his  shoulders  clumsily. 

Anthony  did  not  know  just  what  happened.  He  said  that  they 
seemed  to  be  suddenly  in  the  vortex  of  an  incredible  upheaval. 
He  went  along  to  the  kitchen  to  ask  for  more  tea.  May  was  there 
alone.  Her  behavior  puzzled  him.  He  thought  she  seemed  defi- 
ant, and  at  the  same  time  furtive  and  uneasy.  He  came  back  to  the 
sitting-room.  As  soon  as  he  stepped  inside  the  door  the  forebod- 
ing returned,  striking  harshly  across  his  senses. 

Margaret  was  standing  by  the  window.  She  spoke  with  a  queer 
note  of  amazement.  "  I  don't  see  what  you  mean." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do,"  her  husband  said.  "  You ,  see  quite  well. 
Calvert  here,  sees  too.  What  sort  of  a  fool  have  you  taken  me 


CHAOS  235 

for  —  the  lot  of  you?  "  He  began  suddenly  to  talk  at  the  top 
of  his  voice,  beating  upon  one  hand  with  two  fingers  of  the  other 
in  an  impotent  gesture  of  emphasis.  He  abused  Margaret  and 

Oliver  and  indeed  all  of  us.  "  You  and  your  ideas "  he  said, 

and  choked.  "  To  hell  with  your  ideas." 

Margaret  stood  with  her  fingers  pressed  against  her  cheeks. 
It  was  a  little  nervous  mannerism  into  which  she  fell  uncon- 
sciously in  moments  of  excitement.  Anthony  remembered  notic- 
ing oddly  that  her  cheek  bones  were  quite  high.  "  They  'd  show 
up  if  she  got  thin,"  he  thought  irrelevantly.  Ainslie  was  get- 
ting out  an  extraordinary  tale.  "A  slut  of  a  kitchen  girl,"  he 
said.  "  Could  n't  you  even  hide  your  intrigues  from  servants?  " 

Margaret  gave  a  little  gasping  laugh.  "  Oh,  Keith,"  she  said, 
"  don't  talk  like  that.  We  're  not  at  a  play.  Intrigues !  " 

That  sobered  him:  he  tried  to  speak  quietly.  Anthony  began 
to  see  his  way  through  the  tale.  The  whole  thing  turned  on  that 
week-end  in  January.  May  had  started  the  mischief.  "  Filthy- 
minded  little  harlot,"  Anthony  thought.  He  was  vaguely  sur- 
prised: he  had  not  credited  her  with  the  brains.  But  it  had  not 
been  a  question  of  brains,  he  reflected  afterwards.  An  accidental 
silence  and  then  a  piece  of  half -meaningless  insolence  —  that  was 
all  there  had  been  in  it  at  first.  Then  Keith  had  come  with  his 
suspicions.  "  I  wonder  if  he  questioned  her  outright,"  Anthony 
said  scornfully.  "  That  must  have  been  a  queer  affair." 

May  saw  a  chance  of  avenging  her  misfortunes  on  Margaret's 
prosperity.  I  think  she  hated  Margaret  in  an  obscure  unreason- 
ing fashion  just  because  Margaret  had  witnessed  the  piece  of  un- 
successful play-acting  in  the  kitchen.  Maybe  she  hardly  pro- 
visioned the  disaster  she  was  drawing  on.  Untidy,  muddy-eyed 
Fate,  she  had  not  a  whit  of  imagination.  Her  vengeance  was  half 
just  malicious  stupidity.  She  fell  to  Keith's  suspicions.  She 
wanted  to  make  things  disagreeable  for  Margaret.  Afterwards, 
she  must  have  been  frightened.  She  reiterated  her  accusation 
blindly. 

Keith  had  her  in.  She  was  sullen,  and  looked  at  Margaret 
with  an  odd  enough  expression  of  appeal.  To  Keith's  questions 
she  answered  readily.  Oh,  yes,  Mrs.  Ainslie  had  known  young 


236  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

Mr.  Hearne  was  in  the  house  that  night.  "I  told  her  myself," 
she  said,  with  a  quick  indrawn  breath.  Margaret  turned  her  back 
deliberately,  and  stared  out  of  the  window. 

Anthony's  indignation  got  the  better  of  his  awkward  resentment 
of  the  scene.  "  If  you  don't  send  that  girl  away,"  he  said  to 
Keith,  "  I  '11  take  her  by  the  shoulders  and  run  her  out,  and  so  I 
tell  you."  May  turned  abruptly,  and  in  the  doorway  ran  into 
Oliver.  No  one  had  heard  him  come  in.  She  threw  him  one 
scared  glance,  and  scurried  along  the  passage.  They  heard  her 
sobbing  loudly  in  the  kitchen.  "You  know,  he  must  have  been 
listening  in  the  passage,  that  precious  brother  of  yours,"  Anthony 
said.  "  He  knew  what  was  the  matter." 

But  before  he  could  say  anything,  Margaret  had  come  up  to 
Keith  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  Keith,  my  dear,"  she 
said,  "  let 's  go  home.  We  can't  talk  about  things  here.  Come." 
He  seemed  to  hesitate.  Oliver  rushed  into  the  conversation  like  a 
fool.  "  Yes,  go,"  he  said  to  Keith.  "  Take  yourself  away,  and 
by  God,  don't  let  me  see  your  face  here  again,  you  dirty  spy." 

Anthony  stopped  in  his  narrative  to  reflect.  "  I  think  that  was 
unjust,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  believe  Ainslie  came  definitely  to  spy. 
He  must  have  brooded  over  that  unfortunate  week-end.  I  believe 
he  just  came  with  a  restless  kind  of  feeling  that  there  on  the  very 
scene  of  it,  something  might  turn  up  to  illumine  it  for  him.  You 
see,  he  could  n't  ask  Margaret  about  it.  He  had  to  pretend  that 
he  was  an  enlightened  person  with  a  soul  above  petty  conven- 
tions. And  yet  it  had  irked  him  to  think  of  Margaret  and  Oliver 
alone  in  the  house.  With  all  his  jealous  suspicions  of  Oliver." 

Ainslie  pushed  Margaret's  hand  off  his  arm  and  turned  on 
Oliver.  "  They  made  the  most  unholy  fools  of  themselves,"  An- 
thony said. 

Oliver  did  not  see  or  did  not  care  what  mischief  he  was  making 
by  his  aggressive  insanity.  Keith  worked  himself  into  an  incred- 
ible rage.  "  I  'm  not  a  fool,"  he  shouted.  "  I  don't  go  round 
supposing  unspeakable  things  just  because  a  man  and  a  woman 
spend  a  week-end  in  each  other's  company.  But  if  it  was  all  right 
why  did  you  lie  about  it?  Why  tell  me  you  were  surprised  to 
meet  each  other  the  next  morning,  when  the  girl  had  told  Mar- 
garet you  were  in  the  house?  And  where  were  you  on  Sunday 


CHAOS  237 

night?     Walking  about  London.     I  don't  believe  you.    Margaret 
says  she  was  at  Purley,  but  no  one  saw  her  go  into  the  house." 

That  may  have  been  an  angry  venture:  I  do  not  think  that 
Ainslie  had  been  questioning  his  neighbors.  But  it  turned  out 
to  be  quite  true.  Margaret  had  let  herself  into  her  house  in  the 
darkness  of  a  January  afternoon,  made  tea  in  the  kitchen,  and 
gone  early  to  bed.  No  one  saw  her  go  in:  no  one  saw  a  light  in 
the  house. 

Keith  stopped  for  breath:  his  face  was  distorted.  Anthony 
thought  he  might  be  a  little  mad.  Margaret  chose  the  moment 
to  make  another  appeal.  She  seemed  unconscious  of  any  one  but 
Keith.  She  held  out  her  arms.  God  knows  what  she  thought  of 
then.  Maybe  of  a  quiet  waking,  and  Keith's  face  close  to  hers  in 
the  luminous  dawn. 

"  Come  away,  my  darling."  She  just  touched  his  cheek. 
"  Don't  you  see  this  is  all  madness?  Take  me  away  now.  I  want 
to  talk  to  you.  I  will  tell  you  anything  you  like.  My  dear,  oh, 
my  dear."  Keith  laughed.  He  said  harshly,  "  Yes,  you  '11  talk 
to  me.  I  don't  doubt  that.  You  '11  talk  until  I  don't  know  lies 
from  truth,  and  then  laugh  at  me  for  a  fool.  I  don't  want  you. 
You  can  go  where  you  damn  well  like,  and  do  what  you  like. 
I  'm  done  with  you." 

Margaret  pressed  her  hands  against  her  breast.  "  You  don't 
know  what  you  're  doing,  Keith,"  she  whispered.  "  You  don't 
mean  the  things  you  say." 

"  I  mean  every  word  of  it,"  he  repeated  loudly.  "  I  'm  done 
with  you.  Lies  and  lies  ...  I  loathe  the  sight  of  you." 

She  turned  to  go,  stumbling  a  little  in  the  blindness  of  her 
humiliation.  She  slipped  away  so  quickly  that  she  was  at  the 
front  door  before  Anthony  reached  her. 

"  Margaret,  where  are  you  going?  Wait  a  minute.  I  '11  come 
with  you,"  he  said  uselessly. 

"  I  'd  rather  not,"  she  told  him.  "  I  don't  know  yet  where  I 
am  going.  I  '11  go  for  a  walk  first.  I  '11  be  all  right."  She 
looked  past  him,  and  put  her  hand  on  the  gate. 

"A  minute,"  he  said,  searching  vainly  for  words.  "You 
can't  go  like  that.  Where  can  we  find  you?  You  '11  come  back? 
This  will  blow  over." 


238  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

"That  doesn't  matter,"  she  answered  him  in  a  level  voice. 
"  I  could  n't  come  back.  I  don't  think  I  want  to  see  any  of  you 
again." 

"  What  about  money?  " 

"  There  's  nearly  fifty  pounds  in  Lloyd's  left  of  the  money  my 
uncle  put  there  in  my  name  to  use  for  the  books.  I  '11  take  part 
of  that  until  I  can  settle  something." 

She  was  gone.  Anthony  strode  back  into  the  sitting-room. 
"  You  fools!  "  he  stammered.  "  You  fools.  What  in  God's  name 
do  you  think  you  've  been  doing?  Quarreling  like  a  couple  of 
drunken  sailors  in  a  bawdy  house.  You  've  no  right.  You  've 
no  right.  Don't  you  either  of  you  think  of  any  one  but  your- 
selves? "  He  turned  on  Keith.  He  wanted  to  say  more,  but  he 
was  startled  by  a  glimpse  of  misery  lurking  behind  the  man's 
fury.  He  let  him  go. 

It  was  about  a  fortnight  later  that  Margaret  sent  for  Anthony. 
He  went  to  her  rooms  in  Bernard  Street  and  she  told  him  that 
Keith  intended  to  divorce  her.  She  did  not  tell  him  at  once,  but 
spoke  first  of  her  plans.  "  It  was  well  I  finished  my  research 
work  to  time,"  she  said.  "  I  gave  in  the  thesis,  and  they  were  well 
pleased  with  it.  I  have  a  good  recommendation  from  that  quar- 
ter." 

"  You  're  not  going  to  teach,  Margaret?  "  Anthony  said. 

"  God  forbid.  But  it  has  got  for  me  a  temporary  post  at  a 
school  in  Hampstead.  A  mistress  is  ill  and  taking  half  a  term 
off.  That  gives  me  time  to  think.  I  want  to  train  for  some- 
thing. Something  done  with  hands,  I  mean.  I  could  n't  be  a 
typist  or  anything  like  that,  you  know.  I  'd  like  to  work  all  day 
with  my  hands  and  have  my  brain  to  myself  at  night.  Did  Keith 
ever  tell  you  that  I  wanted  to  go  into  the  factory?  I  did,  but  he 
would  n't  hear  of  it.  I  am  trying  to  find  out  how  I  can  be  trained 
in  tool  setting.  I  should  like  that." 

"  You  're  really  rather  a  queer  old  thing,"  he  said  affectionately. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  troubled  frown.  "  Do  you  think  so? 
I  don't  care  to  be  queer.  I  've  thought  about  it  a  good  deal. 
Only,  there 's  so  little  I  could  do.  I  have  no  taste  for  journalism 
and  no  notion  of  how  to  set  about  such  a  career.  I  don't  want  to 
be  either  a  tsacher  or  a  clerk  or  a  secretary.  The  only  thing  I 


CHAOS  239 

ever  wanted  to  be  was  a  student."  She  laughed  diffidently.  "  I 
have  a  passion  for  reading  the  works  of  other  men.  I  want  to 
know  languages." 

"  You  know  four,"  Anthony  interrupted. 

"I  want  to  know  more.  I  want  to  be  able  to  read  in  Rus- 
sian and  those  queer  semi-Russian  tongues.  I  want  to  know  what 
dead  men  thought  and  dreamed.  What  use  I  could  make  of  such 
learning  I  don't  know.  Indeed,  I  don't  want  to  make  use  of  it. 
have  no  genius,  but  only  a  fatal  attraction  towards  the  genius  of 
other  men." 

"  Sounds  an  unsatisfactory  sort  of  an  ideal  to  me." 
"  Yes.  I  know,  I  know,"  she  said  hurriedly.     "  And  a  selfish 
one.     Why  should  I  enjoy  such  privileges  with  so  many  millions 
of  my  fellows  deprived  of  them  forever?  " 

"  I  should  n't  worry  about  that,  my  dear,"  Anthony  told  her 
drily.  "  By  the  time  you  've  learned  tool  setting  and  Russian 
your  scruples  about  sharing  those  delights  with  the  rest  of  us  will 
have  died  a  natural  death." 

"  I  should  always  be  ready  to  help  people  who  needed  help," 
she  murmured.  "People  like  our  Hammersmith  students,  I 
mean." 

It  was  clear  that  she  had  a  vision  of  herself  in  a  garret,  palely 
ascetic  over  her  books,  growing  old  in  scholarship  amid  a  com- 
pany of  poor  scholars.  And  upon  my  word,  I  might  have  had  a 
stout  fight  to  drag  her  from  her  dreams. 

Anthony  stifled  his  doubts.     "What  about  Keith?  "  he  asked. 
"  Oh !     You  don't  know.     I  meant  to  tell  you.     He  is  apply- 
ing for  a  divorce." 

The  imperturbable  Anthony  leaped  to  his  feet.  Margaret 
looked  at  him  with  a  flickering  smile.  She  seemed  rather  pleased 
with  the  effect  of  her  words.  I  believe  she  suffered  acutely  dur- 
ing this  time,  but  she  had  a  queer  faculty  of  detaching  herself 
from  her  emotions  and  criticizing  the  play. 

"Look  here,"  Anthony  babbled,  "you  're  well  rid  of  the  man. 

But  are  you  sure  you're  happy?     I  mean  —  oh,  damn  it  —  you 

can't  want  to  be  divorced."     He  found  himself  in  the  middle  of  an 

impossible  offer  to  mediate. 

"No,  nothing  can  be  done."    Margaret  assured  him.    "You 


240  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

see  —  if  he  wants  to  be  free,  he 's  got  to  be  free.  And  there 
doesn't  seem  any  other  way.  I  couldn't  insist  upon  making  it 
hard  to  get  rid  of  me."  She  stopped  and  flushed  painfully.  She 
began  again  in  a  low  hurried  voice.  "There's  something  else. 
I  went  to  see  him  again  —  last  week.  At  first  I  thought  I 
could  n't  go.  I  could  n't  forget  things.  But  I  did  go.  He 
would  n't  listen  to  me.  He  wanted  me  to  confess  that  I  was  — 
guilty,  he  called  it.  He  said  he  'd  forgive  me  if  I  'd  confess." 
She  laughed  softly.  "  I  was  very  nearly  tempted  to  work  up 
an  heroic  repentance." 

Anthony  stared  at  her.  He  had  an  impulse  to  get  up  and  run 
from  her  laughter  that  hurt  like  weeping  and  her  absurd,  pitiful 
courage. 

**  But  anyway,  it 's  quite  impossible  now,"  she  said.  "  I  did 
what  I  could.  But  after  that  scene  at  Herne  Hill  .  .  .  And  even 
if  he  said  he  believed  my  word,  and  asked  me  to  come  back  to 
him,  what  sort  of  life  would  it  be  for  us  —  with  all  this  behind?  " 
A  little  later,  she  added,  "  I  sha'n't  make  any  defense.  If  Oliver 
likes  to  defend  himself,  of  course  I  shall  back  him  up.  But  if  it 
is  left  to  me,  I  shall  do  nothing.  It 's  a  pretty  wretched  sort  of  a 
way  out,  but  it 's  the  only  one,  and  I  'd  die  rather  than  appear 
to  be  trying  to  keep  a  man  who  wanted  to  be  rid  of  me." 

"  You  would  n't,"  Anthony  began.  The  hopelessness  of  the 
situation  broke  on  him,  and  he  found  nothing  else  to  say. 

He  could  find  nothing  more  to  say  now,  as  he  told  me  about  it. 
"  There  is  nothing  to  be  done,"  he  repeated.  "  They  've  got  to  be 
free  of  each  other.  No  reconciliation  would  hold  now.  Keith 
has  opened  the  only  door  on  to  freedom  —  short  of  committing 
suicide,  or  conspiring  to  appear  a  faithless  and  evilly-disposed 
husband.  I  suppose  he  could  have  waited,  and  worked  the  de- 
sertion trick.  But  when  you  're  hot  and  sore,  you  don't  think  of 
waiting.  And  Margaret,  being  Margaret,  won't  hinder  him." 

I  nodded.  Anthony  got  up  and  stood  with  his  back  to  me, 
looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  fields  of  long  grass,  whitening 
beneath  the  passage  of  the  wind. 

"  There  's  something  else  to  tell  you.  It  has  worried  me  rather 
during  the  past  few  weeks  —  knowing  it.  David  saw  you  and 


CHAOS  241 

Margaret  last  summer  at  that  little  place  on  the  coast  —  I  forget 
its  name." 

"  The  devil  he  did." 

"He  and  my  mother  were  staying  at  Scarborough,  and  they 
went  over  there  for  the  day.  Of  course,  my  mother  did  n't  know 
you,  and  David  said  nothing.  He  knew  you  from  the  photo- 
graphs I  have  at  the  farm,  and  some  old  fisherman  or  other, 
seeing  him  staring  at  you,  told  him  you  were  staying  in  the 
place.  Told  him  your  names  and  said  Margaret  was  a  good 
lass,  and  you  made  a  fine  upstanding  pair,  or  words  in  the  dia- 
lect to  that  effect."  He  swung  round.  "  Of  course,"  he  said  care- 
fully, **  I  know  it 's  got  nothing  to  do  with  all  this  other  trouble, 
but  I  thought  I  'd  tell  you.  I  'd  suspected  once  or  twice  before 
that  things  were  —  like  that  between  you.  But  you  were  both  so 
damned  cool." 

I  tried  feebly  to  appreciate  this  sudden  turn  in  the  conversation. 
"  You  're  right,"  I  said  at  last.  "  It  had  nothing  to  do  with  all 
this.  Margaret  wouldn't  give  Keith  up  for  me.  I  wanted  her 
to." 

"  Besides,"  Anthony  said,  with  a  flicker  of  sarcasm,  "  it  would 
be  no  use  to  Keith  even  if  he  found  out.  They  were  n't  married 
then.  Might  be  evidence  of  character  in  the  Divorce  Court,  of 
course." 

"  It  would  be  no  use  to  him,"  I  murmured.  "  Everything  wag 
all  square." 

"Ask  him  to  believe  that."  Anthony  stopped,  and  with  an 
abrupt  change  of  tone  — "  You  understand  that  I  knew  it  had  noth- 
ing to  do  with  this."  He  began  at  once  to  tell  me  that  every  one 
of  our  textbooks  had  been  sold.  "  We  called  a  general  meeting 
just  before  I  went  home,  and  told  them  about  you,  and  explained 
that  the  classes  would  have  to  be  given  up  for  the  time  being. 
We  got  permission  to  leave  our  little  library  in  the  cellar,  and  put 
it  in  charge  of  young  Donnel  to  lend  out  books  and  be  generally 
responsible  for  them.  They  were  fed  up  to  hear  you  were  ill." 

"  That  drawer,"  I  interrupted,  "  is  full  of  their  letters.  I  've 
been  meaning  to  get  you  to  go  through  them  and  send  suitable 
replies."  I  yawned  deliberately. 


242  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

Anthony  grinned.  "  Oh,  all  right,"  he  said.  "  I  guess  you  've 
had  as  much  as  you  can  stand.  I  '11  go  out  for  a  bit."  He  paused 
at  the  door.  "  I  hope  to  God  I'  ve  done  the  right  thing  in  letting 
you  know  all  this  now." 

My  head  was  heavy  and  stupid.  I  went  back  wearily  over  the 
phrases  of  Anthony's  tale.  Margaret  would  be  free.  I  had  no 
throb  of  exultation.  I  could  feel  her  humiliation:  it  lay  heavily 
on  my  spirit.  I  wanted  to  comfort  her.  My  weakness  irritated 
me.  The  couch  was  horribly  narrow.  I  would  get  back  to  bed. 
I  wondered  wretchedly  why  she  did  not  write  me. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  NTHONY  was  leaning  out  of  the  window  as  she  came  down 
jT\.  the  road.  He  left  the  window  and  stood  beside  my  bed,  look- 
ing down  at  me.  "  Joy,"  he  said  gently,  "  Margaret  is  here.  I 
had  a  letter  the  other  day,  saying  she  would  like  to  come.*' 

"  Go  and  bring  her,"  I  said.  The  weakness  of  my  limbs  seemed 
turned  to  a  quivering  molten  flame.  I  tried  to  sit  up.  He  pushed 
me  back  on  the  pillows  and  went.  I  heard  the  nurse's  voice. 
"  Oh,  yes,  we  were  expecting  you,  Mrs.  Ainslie.  Mr.  Calvert  said 
you  'd  be  here.  I  know  he  '11  be  pleased  to  see  a  fresh  face.  He 
is  heartily  sick  of  the  rest  of  us.  You  '11  remember  not  to  excite 
him,  of  course." 

She  opened  the  door  and  Margaret  followed  her  in.  With  the 
least  trace  of  hesitation  Margaret  walked  across  to  the  bed,  and 
bent  down  to  kiss  me.  I  felt  her  lips  on  my  cheek,  and  the  blood 
thudded  in  my  ears.  The  very  power  of  response  seemed  drawn 
out  of  me.  I  saw  the  nurse's  round  face,  with  its  expression  of 
amiable  surprise.  Then  she  too  went.  The  door  shut  behind 
her.  Margaret  sat  down  in  the  low  window  seat.  She  was 
thinner:  her  cheek  bones  showed  more  plainly.  There  was  just 
enough  brooding  of  pain  in  her  eyes  to  lift  her  from  mere  beauty 
into  the  heart  of  loveliness.  I  watched  her  as  she  sat  there,  very 
stiff  in  the  neck  and  straight  in  the  back,  with  no  concession  to 
the  curves  of  the  chair-back.  She  held  herself  bravely. 

"Anthony  told  you?  " 

"Yes." 

She  smiled  at  me.  "  I  Ve  made  an  awful  mess  of  things. 
Don't  you  think  so,  Joy?  I  couldn't  do  anything.  I  couldn't 
take  you  and  I  could  n't  keep  Keith." 

I  could  only  lie  and  look  at  her.  The  sights  and  sounds  of 
misery  make  the  words  stick  in  my  throat.  I  feel  before  them 
nothing  but  a  blind,  helpless  rage.  I  could  feel  her  misery,  but 
I  could  not  touch  it  to  comfort  it.  I  wondered  what  waa  wrong 

243 


244  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

with  me.  Some  fantastic  twist  of  my  mind  evoked  a  forgotten 
memory.  I  saw  myself  as  a  great  awkward  boy  of  nine  or  ten, 
standing  in  the  street  beside  a  weeping  child.  I  felt  again  my 
acute  misery  and  discomfort.  The  child  wept  on,  and  I  stared 
at  it.  My  ears  burned  and  my  eyes  smarted.  Suddenly  I  dived 
into  my  pockets  and  found  there  heaven  knows  what  of  treasure 
—  knife,  ha'penny,  blood  alley  —  all  the  rest  of  a  boy's  hoard 
when  his  hoard  has  to  be  guarded  on  his  person  from  domestic 
piracy.  I  stuffed  the  whole  lot  into  the  infant's  hands  and 
pockets,  and  took  to  my  heels,  bowed  down  by  a  sense  of  irretriev- 
able loss. 

The  absurd  scene  shone  before  me  in  the  colors  of  life.  I  saw 
the  read  streaks  in  the  big  blood  alley,  a  king  and  a  colossus 
among  marbles.  Could  I  give  Margaret  anything?  A  wave  of 
hysterical  laughter  surged  up  in  my  throat.  I  glanced  at  her, 
and  the  look  on  her  face  sobered  me. 

She  was  looking  at  something  her  own  mind  had  conjured  up. 
Her  hands  were  folded  on  her  lap.  Perhaps  she  was  feeling  her 
isolation  and  my  inability  to  help  her.  Suddenly  her  lips  quiv- 
ered. She  turned  her  face  to  me,  all  twisted  like  a  child's  who  is 
trying  not  to  cry.  She  got  up  and  knelt  down  by  the  bed,  and 
laid  her  face  against  my  breast. 

"  I  can't  bear  it,"  I  heard  her  whisper.  *'  Oh,  Joy,  I  can't  bear 
it.  What  they'  11  say  .  .  .  How  can  I  live  among  people  again?  " 
I  put  my  arms  round  her,  and  stroked  her  cheek  and  her  hair. 

Something  moved  in  me,  broke  loose  from  its  moorings,  and 
lifted  in  the  new  warm  sea  of  happiness  that  filled  my  senses, 
I  lifted  her  hand  so  that  it  lay  across  my  lips.  Now  it  was  I  who 
floated  in  that  sea,  in  a  radiant  flood  of  light.  I  soothed  her  and 
touched  her.  My  fingers  trembled.  "  My  dear,"  I  whispered. 
**  My  dear,  my  little  girl.  Oh,  you  are  in  my  heart.  I  love  you." 
I  tried  to  raise  myself  in  bed  so  that  I  could  hold  her  better. 
The  movement  roused  her  from  her  abandon  of  grief.  She  lifted 
her  head,  and  drew  herself  out  of  my  arms.  "  How  wicked  of 
me,"  she  said.  "  I  am  doing  you  such  harm." 

"Do  I  look  as  if  you  were  doing  me  harm?"  I  answered 
her.  "  Come  here.  Come  beside  me,  or  J  '11  get  up  and  hold  you 
go  that  you  can't  get  away," 


CHAOS  245 

She  laughed  a  little  at  that,  and  came  to  me  again.  "  I  want 
to  feel  you  in  my  arms,"  I  said.  "  Oh,  Margaret,  to  have  you 
again."  She  crouched  down,  kneeling  on  a  little  hassock,  and  half 
lying  on  the  bed.  Her  face  was  close  to  mine  on  the  pillow, 
and  we  lay  in  each  other's  arms  like  two  children,  tired  of  playing. 
I  kissed  her  dear  face  and  her  closed  eyes.  "  You  '11  let  me  take 
you  away  after  all  this?  "  I  whispered.  "We'll  go  right  away. 
You  shall  forget." 

She  laid  her  hand  against  my  mouth.  "  Don't  let 's  talk  of 
that  now." 

We  talked  no  more.  I  shut  my  eyes,  and  opened  them  to  look 
at  her  again,  lying  beside  me,  still  and  content.  My  life  seemed 
ebbing  away  into  hers.  I  tightened  the  grasp  of  my  arms.  She 
moved  a  little  and  her  lips  touched  mine. 

She  went  away  in  the  evening,  after  telling  me  to  sleep  and 
grow  strong.  I  listened  to  her  voice  and  Anthony's  as  they 
walked  down  the  road.  I  pressed  my  face  on  the  pillow  where 
hers  had  lain,  and  stretched  out  my  arms  in  the  fragrant  dusk. 


CHAPTER  VI 

AINSLIE'S  petition  for  divorce  was  heard  and  granted.    There 
was  no  defense.     Between  us,  Anthony  and  I  had  restrained 
Oliver's  desire  to  go  into  court,  and,  he  said,  blast  Keith  Ainslie's 
character  for  life. 

Who  would  flog  the  dead  dog  of  the  divorce  laws,  if  the  rotting 
corpse  were  not  an  offense  on  the  public  highways?  The  whole 
thing  is  for  pure  amazement.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  it  mat- 
ters not  one  jot  whether  divorce  be  hard  or  easy,  so  long  as  it  is 
still  made  an  occasion  for  public  comment  and  embarrassment. 
Imagine  it!  Grave  and  worthy  gentlemen,  reading  the  puerile 
intimacies  of  the  sinners'  letters,  squatting  on  their  judicial  heels 
by  the  side  of  servant  girls  to  peep  through  keyholes  into  bed- 
rooms, pulling  the  very  sheets  off  the  adulterous  bed.  It  is  no 
longer  allowed  to  execute  a  man  in  public,  although  at  the  time 
of  his  happy  translation  he  is  fully  clothed,  prayed  over,  and 
otherwise  sanctified  according  to  the  laws  of  revenge.  But  before 
you  can  get  rid  of  your  wife  you  must  strip  her  in  open  court, 
with  witness  of  letters,  amateur  detectives,  hotel-keepers,  or  any 
other  little  accessories  before  the  fact  of  her  nakedness. 

Could  anything  be  more  revolting  or  degrading,  more  offensive 
to  common  humanity  and  common  decency  —  except,  perhaps, 
the  spectacle  of  a  hardened  loafer,  incontinently  starving  himself 
to  death  in  the  publicity  of  the  Embankment  instead  of  loafing  to 
his  death  in  a  club  armchair  behind  a  Piccadilly  window  and  a 
bottle  of  seltzer  water? 

Determined  compassion  might  find  excuse  for  the  Embankment 
nuisance:  it  may  be  that  some  chance  made  him  ineligible  for  the 
decent  privacy  of  the  armchair.  But  what,  by  the  laughter  of 
the  gods,  can  be  said  in  defense  of  a  people  who  permit  the  public 
spectacle  of  Mr.  A.  flinging  accusations  at  Mrs.  A.  "  Madam, 
you  have  allowed  yourself  to  share  beds  with  Mr.  X.,"  and  her 
retort,  "Sir,  you  are  a  liar,  and  as  bad  yourself"? 

246 


CHAOS  247 

There  was  once  a  judge  who  refused  to  make  absolute  a 
woman's  divorce  obtained  against  her  husband,  because  the  mis- 
erable woman  had  herself  given  birth  to  an  illegitimate  son. 
The  honorable  judge,  acting  doubtless  that  it  might  be  fulfilled 
which  was  written  in  the  scriptures  saying,  "  I  will  visit  the  sins 
of  the  fathers  upon  the  children,"  condemned  the  woman  to  re- 
main shameful  in  her  own  sight  and  her  child  to  be  a  bastard 
with  a  "  Fie  upon  you  for  a  bold-faced  jig,"  delivered  with  all 
the  awful  solemnity  of  the  bench. 

Oh,  race  of  moral  apes,  who  will  credit  in  a  thousand  years 
that  his  dress  of  a  little  brief  authority  could  lead  man  into  such 
impertinent  fatuity? 

It  would  be  better  to  return  to  the  old  Catholic  ideal  of  in- 
dissoluble marriage.  That  at  least  is  dignified,  and  has  the  graces 
of  austerity. 

But  cannot  a  marriage  be  ended  with  decent  dignity?  Is 
there  nothing  between  the  Catholic  way  and  the  present  grave 
indecency? 

I  wrangled  with  myself,  arguing  these  things,  through  the 
days  before  Margaret's  divorce  so  that  I  should  not  find  quite  in- 
tolerable the  knowledge  of  her  sick  humiliation. 

What  she  suffered,  her  husband  suffered  also.  They  were  tear- 
ing themselves  free,  bleeding  and  wretched.  In  their  desperation 
they  dealt  each  other  blind,  mad  blows.  With  whatever  ardor 
they  had  desired  it,  there  could  have  been  no  reconciliation  for 
them  after  that  sorry  struggle. 

Two  days  before  the  hearing  of  his  petition,  I  saw  Keith  Ainslie 
for  the  last  time.  I  was  sitting  in  the  Temple  Gardens.  He  came 
striding  through,  passing  me  unseeing.  His  shoulders  drooped, 
and  he  walked  like  a  man  in  the  grip  of  an  uneasy  foreboding. 
I  thought,  "  He  does  n't  altogether  believe  his  own  accusations." 
He  passed  round  a  corner,  and  out  of  my  sight. 

Margaret  left  London  the  day  after  the  divorce.  She  went  to 
Scotland,  where  her  uncle  had  arranged  to  have  her  trained 
in  tool  setting.  He  probably  thought  it  an  unconscionable  whim, 
but  he  gave  way  to  it  as  readily  as  he  would  have  done  if  she 
had  asked  to  be  given  an  aeroplane  and  taught  to  fly.  "  He  said," 
Margaret  told  me  once,  "  that  my  father  was  a  fool,  and  that  I 


248  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

was  under  the  double  disadvantage  of  being  a  woman  and  his 
daughter." 

I  saw  her  the  day  before  she  went.  I  had  known  all  along  that 
for  a  little  while  at  least  I  should  have  to  leave  her  alone.  After 
her  tremulous  surrender  at  the  cottage,  she  had  stiffened  herself 
and  drawn  away  into  an  obstinate  isolation.  Maybe  my  weak- 
ness had  disarmed  and  my  strength  repelled  her.  She  set  up 
against  it  a  strength  born  of  her  terrible  dread  that  we  should  pity 
her.  In  her  raw  misery  she  asked  nothing  but  to  be  left  behind 
her  defenses  until  she  had  made  herself  a  new  shell  to  cover  the 
shrinking  spirit. 

I  schooled  myself  to  ask  nothing  of  her,  not  even  that  I  might 
comfort  her.  Our  last  evening  together  shook  my  resolution. 
She  sat  beside  me  in  the  lounge  of  her  hotel.  She  had  left  her 
rooms  a  week  before,  flying  from  an  imaginary  curiosity.  We 
watched  the  excited  groups  over  their  war  news. 
"  When  are  you  going,  Joy?  "  she  said. 

"  I  shall  go  to-morrow,"  I  answered.  "  I  was  only  waiting  for 
this  to  be  over.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  went  yesterday  and  was 
examined,  and  got  three  days'  leave." 

She  looked  at  me,  and  then  away  across  the  lounge.  "  Give 
you  good  luck,  Joy,"  Her  voice  shook. 

I  bent  over  her.  **  Is  that  all  ?  "  I  whispered.  "  Margaret  — 
have  you  no  love  for  me  that  I  can  take  with  me?  " 

I  felt  her  arm  tremble  against  mine.     "Ah,  don't  make  me 
think  of  it,"  she  said.     "  It  sounds  cruel.     You  are  going  —  per- 
haps you  will  be  killed.     I  know  I  ought  to  be  ready  to  give  you 
anything,  say  anything.     But  I  can't  pretend  to  you." 
"  I  don't  want  you  to  pretend." 

"You  must  let  me  alone.  Oh,  I  think  I  want  nothing  now 
but  to  go  quietly  all  the  rest  of  my  days.  It  is  as  if  they  'd  torn 
the  past  away  from  me,  and  the  beauty  I  had  in  it.  Everything 
has  been  spoiled  —  not  just  the  years  of  my  marriage.  It  is  my 
past  that  he  has  made  hateful  and  ridiculous  —  the  past  that  re- 
mained beautiful  in  spite  of  all.  I  cannot  bear  to  remember  that 
I  put  it  in  his  power  to  such  an  extent.  I  have  been  so  shamed." 
We  were  silent  awhile,  and  then  she  said,  "  I  'd  like  to  go  and 
look  at  London.  I  may  not  come  back  to  it  again." 


CHAOS  249 

We  set  out  and  walked  down  Southampton  Row,  and  into  the 
Strand.  I  think  Margaret  found  a  kind  of  comfort  in  the 
jostling  of  crowds  who  did  not  care  and  did  not  know  her.  I 
thought  of  the  exultation  that  had  leapt  through  me  on  that  night 
when  Mick  and  I  made  our  trial  of  the  great  city.  I  laughed 
a  little  at  the  two  awkward  boys. 

We  went  back  to  her  hotel  along  the  darkened  streets  round 
the  Museum.  My  heart  failed  me.  "  Margaret,"  I  said,  and  took 
her  in  my  arms.  We  clung  to  each  other  for  a  moment.  She 
lifted  her  face,  very  pale  and  youthful-seeming.  I  took  off  my 
hat  and  stooped  to  kis*  her.  She  drew  my  head  down,  and  kissed 
my  hair. 


CHAPTER  VII 

war  crept  into  my  life  as  the  sea  floods  slowly  up  the 
creeks  of  an  island  that  the  full  tide  will  submerge.  My  ab- 
sorption in  Margaret  took  off  the  fine  edge  of  excitement.  I  went 
mechanically  about  the  business  of  enlisting. 

I  had  come  back  to  London  in  July.  I  meant  to  go  out  to 
Mick.  He  had  just  got  his  chance  of  cotton  land,  and  was  hesi- 
tating to  take  it.  "  My  research  work  must  come  first,"  he  wrote. 
"  I  'm  doing  big  things  out  here.  I  tell  you  I  'm  quoted  all  over 
India.  ...  If  you  could  come  and  manage  for  me,  or  something 
of  the  kind,  it  would  just  about  save  the  situation." 

I  cabled  that  I  would  come. 

In  a  few  weeks  we  should  be  scattered  over  the  earth.  We 
revived  the  Eikonoklasts,  and  met  twice  a  week  to  honor  our  pass- 
ing youth  with  phrases.  Anthony  was  on  his  farm.  Chamber- 
layn  was  going  to  Italy  to  make  roads.  Mick  and  I  would  be  in 
Barbados  together.  I  did  not  intend  to  go  until  the  late  autumn. 
I  had  not  the  least  doubt  but  that  Margaret  would  be  ready  then 
to  go  with  me.  All  my  plans  for  the  future  were  made  in  that 
faith.  Margaret  knew  it,  and  said  nothing  to  upset  them.  She 
went  on  planning  her  life  as  if  it  were  to  be  lived  alone.  But  I 
think  she  would  have  come  with  me  in  the  end. 

I  could  not  get  her  to  join  the  new  Eikonoklasts.  On  the  nights 
when  she  thought  they  would  be  at  our  rooms,  she  did  not  come 
near  us.  When  we  left  Herne  Hill,  we  found  temporary  rooms  in 
a  street  of  small  houses  off  Shepherd's  Bush  Road.  There  we 
lived  in  the  bosom  of  a  family  that  embraced  ten  canaries,  three 
dogs,  two  Spaniards,  and  a  neurotic  husband.  Our  overworked 
landlady  took  a  liking  to  Margaret  and  on  the  days  she  came  to 
see  us  ruthlessly  turned  birds,  dogs,  foreigners  and  husband  out 
into  the  kitchen. 

Margaret  came  one  night,  and  found  Kersent  already  there. 
She  had  not  seen  him  for  a  long  time.  She  shrank  from  meeting 

250 


CHAOS  251 

him.  "He  is  inhuman,"  she  said.  "It  didn't  matter  before. 
But  I  don't  want  to  meet  him  now.  He  will  look  upon  me  as  a 
person  who  has  made  a  silly  failure  of  things.  He  has  only 
scorn  for  failure." 

She  stiffened  herself  to  meet  him.  Before  she  had  been  in  the 
room  three  minutes,  I  saw  that  she  had  been  right  in  her  judg- 
ment of  him.  His  attitude  to  her  had  altered  in  spite  of  himself. 
He  treated  her  with  the  rather  exaggerated  deference  he  kept  for 
inferior  beings.  It  must  have  fallen  on  her  like  stripes  on  a  raw 
wound,  but  she  smiled,  and  was  hardily  witty. 

We  had  to  decide  what  could  be  done  for  the  students  we  were 
abandoning.  Curiously  enough,  Kersent,  who  had  been  least 
enthusiastic  for  the  Scheme,  was  most  reluctant  to  give  it  up. 
He  could  hardly  be  got  to  discuss  things.  But  we  could  think  of 
no  one  to  whom  we  might  appeal  to  take  our  place.  Alone,  Ker- 
sent and  Oliver  could  do  nothing.  We  decided  to  call  a  general 
meeting  of  students.  I  intended  to  give  away  all  my  books,  ex- 
cept those  that  Oliver  wanted.  We  would  tell  them  that  Kersent 
and  Oliver  were  ready  and  eager  to  give  what  help  they  could 
to  men  who  came  to  them.  What  more  could  we  do? 

We  were  still  talking  when  the  door  opened,  and  Chamberlayn 
came  in  with  the  news  of  the  Austrian  ultimatum.  He  was  filled 
with  an  incomprehensible  excitement.  We  laughed  at  him. 

I  shall  never  be  certain  whether  we  laughed  because  we  were 
fools  or  because  we  were  honest  men. 

I  dare  say  our  laughter  was  that  of  a  good  many  honest  fools. 
For  all  our  deep  social  preoccupation,  we  had  never  lifted  our 
eyes  beyond  the  limits  of  our  island  society,  its  injustice  and  its 
shortcoming.  We  had  made  some  vague  unconscious  assumption 
of  the  general  peacefulness  of  civilized  countries.  True,  there  had 
been  war  in  the  Balkans,  but  down  there  men  were  still  half 
savages  —  small  races  lagging  on  the  outskirts  of  civilization. 
We  drew  no  portents,  imagined  no  subtle  threads  of  inter-rela- 
tionship with  Near  East  doings.  We  simply  were  not  interested. 
The  veriest  gutterbred  attached  more  meaning  to  the  phrases  of 
Empire  than  we  did,  who  professed  ourselves  an  intelligentsia  of 
deeds. 

I  could  give  a  dozen  reasons  for  our  ostrich-attitude  to  foreign 


252  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

affairs.  But  I  believe  the  chief  to  be  that  we  were  never  trained 
to  interest  in  them.  The  Imperial  dash  that  was  added  to  the 
milk-and-water  of  board  school  and  secondary  education  was  just 
calculated  to  sicken  and  disgust  any  honest  child.  We  turned  in 
loathing  from  the  fat  men  who  babbled  on  our  Speech  Days  of 
the  glories  of  our  Empire.  What  were  the  glories  of  Empire  to 
us  when  they  came  dropping  from  the  mouth  of  Erasmus  But- 
terby,  whom  we  knew  for  an  arrant  scoundrel,  buying  cheap  to  sell 
dear  in  all  his  sixty  shops  with  their  complement  of  starved  and 
bullied  assistants?  What  were  they  to  our  neighbor  in  class, 
whose  under-paid  sister  was  a  cast-off  mistress  of  Butterby,  whose 
father  did  the  work  of  six  horses  for  Butterby,  and  drew  there- 
from the  wretched  wage  that  his  mother  returned  again  to  But- 
terby's  insatiable  maw?  We  confounded  the  Empire  with  But- 
terby in  one  precocious  sneer. 

We  did  not  understand  either,  that  the  debauched  Imperialism 
offered  to  our  shrinking  gaze  was  not  intended  by  way  of  honest 
enlightenment,  but  only  to  fill  us  with  awe  of  mysteries  beyond 
our  ken,  and  keep  us  nervously  wagging  heads  and  flags  a  long, 
long  way  behind  our  diplomatists'  endeavors. 

Perhaps  they  do  these  things  better  in  the  public  schools. 

I  doubt,  however,  that  there  too  they  get  the  same  suspicious 
vintage  —  only  offered  to  their  refined  instincts  in  better  bottles 
than  those  that  were  thought  good  enough  for  us. 

When  we  left  school  and  came  to  London,  our  greedy,  searching 
interests  fastened  naturally  on  the  things  nearest  us.  We  became 
absorbed  in  our  Hammersmith  experiment.  Gradually  the  But- 
terby credo  of  Trade  and  Empire  took  in  our  minds  the  appear- 
ance of  a  fantasy.  Without  really  thinking  about  it  at  all,  we  de- 
cided that  his  dreary,  smudged  picture  of  world-dominion  was  a 
nightmare  figment,  lingering  on  in  the  minds  of  men  who  had  not 
noticed  that  the  world  was  moving  beyond  them.  Kings,  generals, 
ambassadors,  all  the  pageantry  of  sovereigns,  what  were  they  but 
a  masque  playing  itself  out  before  a  curtain,  while  behind  them 
on  the  real  stage  the  real  play  was  preparing,  the  play  of  humanity 
moving  to  the  republic  of  the  world?  We  never  talked  foreign 
politics:  we  never  thought  of  them,  except  in  the  way  of  half-con- 
scious conclusions,  arrived  at  and  dismissed  in  some  obscure 


CHAOS  253 

region  of  our  minds.  We  must  assuredly  have  concluded  that  in 
all  countries  right-minded  folk  thought  of  redressing  the  injustice 
that  oppressed  their  fellows,  and  were  hindered  from  their  incon- 
tinent altruism  by  the  selfish  plots  of  rich  men.  No  doubt  we 
recognized  the  existence  also  of  the  wrong-minded,  whom  preju- 
dice, self-interest,  or  mere  craven  stupidity  kept  on  the  side  of  the 
man  in  possession.  Even,  we  knew  that  prejudice  and  fear  were 
worse  enemies  of  justice  than  riches,  however  ill-gotten.  Had  we 
followed  up  this  train  of  thought  we  might  have  arrived  at  the  pos- 
sibility of  war.  But  civilized  nations  do  not  fight.  What  then 
are  armies  for?  We  might  have  replied  that  they  were,  strictly 
speaking,  to  be  regarded  as  a  charming  medieval  relic,  the  last 
of  the  Guilds. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  question  never  arose.  We  assumed 
international  peace.  If  we  thought  of  war  at  all,  it  was  to  play 
with  the  possibility  of  revolution  and  a  barricade  across  the 
Strand.  And  that  we  did  not  take  seriously. 

The  murder  of  the  Archduke  had  not  much  interest  for  us.  It 
interested  me  least  of  all,  with  my  eyes  drawn  always  to  the 
spectacle  of  Margaret's  failure  and  humiliation.  Besides,  we 
never  read  the  type  of  newspaper  that  seized  on  all  occasions,  and 
on  this  no  less  than  others,  to  point  the  signs  of  the  times  for  an 
unheroic  and  trustful  generation. 

We  laughed  at  Chamberlayn  and  his  talk  of  war.  Then,  partly 
to  pacify  him,  we  asked  questions. 

He  was  all  too  ready  to  answer  us.  He  began  at  once  to  talk 
at  the  top  of  his  voice,  in  a  strange  tongue,  words  pouring  out  in 
an  awkward  haste. 

•"Oh,  be  quiet  with  your  incidents  and  your  secret  treaties," 
Oliver  groaned,  "  and  tell  us  in  plain  English  —  such  as  we  poor 
unlettered  men  have  and  use  —  what  you  are  talking  about." 

Chamberlayn  had  the  air  of  an  animated  owl.  "  Look  here," 
he  said,  "  and  for  God's  sake  stop  pretending  that  you  can't  under- 
stand. I  tell  you,  I  know  what  I  'm  saying.  It 's  war  —  not  any 
old  backwater  of  a  war,  but  real  European  war.  I  was  lunching 
at  Jane's.  She  's  been  complaining  to  the  governor  that  I  neglect 
her.  There  was  a  brigadier-general  there  who  said  war  was  in- 
evitable. No  —  it  was  n't  a  case  of  the  wish  being  f  ather  to  the 


254  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

thought,  for  he  positively  looked  upon  it  with  dread.  Not  that 
he  is  n't  brave  enough  —  I  did  n't  mean  that.  He  lost  an  arm  in 
the  Boer  War,  and  he  'd  have  been  lieutenant-general  now  if  he 
had  n't  had  a  sister,  or  if  he  'd  had  another  kind  of  sister.  He 
said  it  was  well  known  that  war  was  being  planned  by  Germany. 
He  said  the  French  knew  it,  and  the  Italians  knew  it,  and  the  Rus- 
sian court  knew  it.  Every  one  knew  it  but  the  English,  who  never 
know  about  anything  they  don't  want  to  happen.  Besides,  you 
can't  frighten  a  race  that  was  n't  frightened  of  Napoleon." 

Oliver  laughed. 

"  I  'm  only  telling  you  what  he  said,"  Chamberlayn  said  angrily. 
"  The  man  's  no  fool.  He  said  we  were  n't  frightened  of  Napoleon 
because  we  vilified  him  and  made  him  out  such  a  contemptible  lit- 
tle monster  that  we  came  to  believing  he  was  one.  Having  a 
Channel  between  us  and  him  made  a  difference,  of  course." 

"  Your  general  seems  to  have  thought  about  things,"  Margaret 
said  soothingly. 

"  He  has.  That 's  why  I  believe  in  him.  He 's  not  one  of 
your  side-whiskered  old  blood-suckers.  Besides,  I  've  heard  it  all 
before  —  all  he  said.  He  said  that  people  who  understood  were 
only  waiting  for  the  signs  that  would  announce  the  opening  of  the 
last  act.  This  Austrian  ultimatum  is  the  sign.  Servia  will  re- 
fuse .  .  ." 

"  Servia  won't  dare  refuse." 

**  She  will,  she  will.     She  's  got  Russia  behind  her." 

"  Then  it 's  Russia  that 's  making  war." 

"You  don't  understand."  Chamberlayn  was  beside  himself 
with  excitement,  and  in  an  agony  of  annoyance  at  our  stupidity. 
"  Austria  did  n't  send  that  ultimatum.  It 's  Germany.  Every  one 
knows  it 's  Germany.  It 's  either  fight  her  or  give  in.  And  if  we 
do  give  in  do  you  suppose  this  will  be  her  last  demand?  She  '11 
go  on  from  bad  to  worse.  She  '11  interfere  and  rattle  swords  all 
over  Europe.  Sooner  or  later,  it 's  war  —  or  surrender  to  her. 
Oh,  damn  you,  can't  you  see  it?  " 

I  shook  my  head.  "  I  don't  believe  it,"  I  said.  "  It 's  too, 
too  plausible.  Things  don't  happen  like  that  nowadays.  Ger- 
many pushes  Austria  on  to  Servia  and  spikes  herself  on  Russia. 
Russia  leans  on  France,  France  on  England,  and  the  whole  lot 


CHAOS  255 

topple  in  the  ditch.  You  shove  the  first  man  in  the  line,  and 
they  all  go  over  in  turn.  Oh,  altogether  too  symmetrical.  Try 
again,  my  son.  Besides,  nations  aren't  to  be  shoved  about  like 
that  now.  You  '11  see,  Servia  will  accept  the  Austrian  terms,  and 
your  pretty  house  of  cards  will  crumble  on  your  aunt  Jane's  dinner 
table  and  be  removed  with  the  dessert.  And  the  brigadier  will 
commit  suicide  in  his  coffee." 

Chamberlayn  had  recovered  his  calm.  "  Will  you  believe  I  'm 
talking  sense  when  you  read  that  Servia  has  refused?  "  he  asked. 

"  We  '11  begin  to  think  about  it  then,"  I  assured  him. 

We  tried  to  get  back  to  our  students.  But  Chamberlayn  had 
killed  the  spirit  of  discussion.  He  himself  was  too  restless  to  join 
in  any  planning.  "  What 's  the  use  of  talking  about  the  future? 
In  a  few  weeks  there  won't  be  any  future,  but  only  one  day  after 
another." 

In  a  while  he  jumped  up,  and  said  he  could  not  sit  still  there. 
We  saw  him  hurrying  past  the  window  with  distraction  in  his 
aspect. 

He  left  uneasiness  behind  him.  Kersent  sat  huddled  in  his 
chair,  a  cavernous  thing  of  broken  basketwork  and  rags.  His 
fine  hair  straggled  over  the  dingy  cushions.  He  seemed  sunk  in 
unhappy  thought.  I  tried  to  rouse  him  by  asking  about  his  work. 
"  I  was  thinking  of  war,"  he  said  briefly. 

"You  don't  believe  in  Chamberlayn's  line  of  toppling  na- 
tions! "  I  exclaimed. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  he  said  slowly.  "  I  was  just  thinking  that  it 
would  be  in  some  such  catastrophic  madness  that  war  might  come. 
It  would  have  to  come  like  that  —  if  it  is  to  come  at  all  nowa- 
days." 

"  It  won't  come." 

Kersent  sat  up.     "What  would  you  do  if  there  were  war?  " 

"  Fight,"  said  Oliver  simply. 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  answered,  "  that  it  would  be  so  easy  as  that. 
I  might  have  to  think  about  it.  Would  you  fight  whether  the  war 
were  just  or  unjust?  " 

"  There  is  neither  justice  nor  injustice  in  war,"  Kersent  said, 
before  Oliver  could  speak. 

"  Some  wars  are  simply  a  disgrace,"  I  mused.     "  Like  South 


256  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

Africa.  But  I  can't  imagine  that  there  might  be  a  war  which 
would  have  to  be  fought  —  to  stave  off  worse  things.  Oh,  damn 
it,  what  would  you  do?  " 

"  I  should  refuse  to  fight,"  Kersent  answered. 

"  No  matter  what  the  circumstances?  " 

"  I  should  refuse  in  any  circumstances." 

Margaret  was  sitting  at  the  table.  She  turned  her  head  now 
to  look  at  Kersent  with  curiosity.  "  Tell  us  why,"  she  said. 

Kersent  roused  himself  to  answer  her.  It  was  queer  how 
quickly  he  responded  to  any  probe  of  Margaret's.  There  was,  I 
think,  some  subtle  antagonism  between  them,  which  showed  itself 
in  Margaret's  infrequent  thrusts  at  Kersent;  in  his  quite  intol- 
erable deference  to  her  now,  and  always  in  his  readiness  to  defend 
himself  before  her.  He  would  explain  himself  to  Margaret  when 
indolence  or  a  faint  contempt  kept  him  placid  and  silent  under 
my  attacks  on  his  philosophy.  He  was  stirred  to  explain  it  now. 

"  I  would  n't  fight  in  any  war,"  he  repeated.  "  It 's  not  that 
I  'm  afraid.  Of  course,  I  can't  prove  that.  You  can  believe  it  or 
not  as  you  like." 

"  You  can  leave  that  bit  out,"  Margaret  said  briefly. 

Indeed  we  all  saw  it  as  absurd  to  associate  cowardice  with 
Kersent's  frail  body  and  grim  spirit. 

"  I  might  offer  you  all  sorts  of  reasons.  That  I  have  better 
things  to  do  than  fight.  But  you  could  counter  that  if  you  could 
show  the  things  to  be  fought  for  as  more  important  than  anything 
in  my  life.  I  might  refuse  to  fight  in  the  wars  of  kings  and  cap- 
italists. I  'd  have  a  better  case  there.  But  after  all,  a  lost  war, 
might  be  lost  for  others  beside  the  rich  man  and  his  power.  Of 
course  in  any  war,  lost  or  won,  he  'd  suffer  least.  If  war  lasted 
for  a  dozen  years,  his  wife  would  n't  be  pawning  her  furniture  for 
clothes,  nor  crying  over  her  starving  children.  But  my  reasons  go 
behind  and  beyond  those." 

"  Religion,"  Oliver  said. 

Kersent  shook  his  head.  Through  the  serene  voice  ran  a  muf- 
fled throbbing  excitement,  like  a  thread  of  fire  through  wet  ling. 
"No,  not  religion.  I  can  imagine  that  a  man  might  have  the 
command  to  love  all  men,  even  the  enemy,  so  ringing  in  his 


CHAOS  257 

ears  that  he  would  be  prepared  to  die  rather  than  lift  the  sword 
struck  from  the  hand  of  the  disciple  in  the  garden.  He  would 
have  arrived  at  my  point  of  view,  but  by  a  swifter  route." 

"  I  wonder,"  Margaret  began,  and  stopped.  Kersent  waited  for 
her  to  go^on.  "  No,  finish  what  you  're  saying,"  she  said  impa- 
tiently. "  I  don't  want  to  argue  with  you  now.  I  want  to  under- 
stand." 

"  It  is  this  —  that  for  me  nothing,  nothing  at  all,  can  justify  the 
taking  of  life.  I  have  come  deliberately  to  the  conclusion  that 
there  is  no  value  in  life  higher  than  the  sanctity  of  life  itself.  I 
would  submit  to  death  for  this  ideal,  but  there  is  no  other  fit  to 
die  for." 

He  broke  off.  He  seemed  to  be  struggling  within  himself  for 
mastery  over  an  excitement  as  powerful  as  Chamberlayn's.  Mar- 
garet frowned. 

"  There  are  certainly  other  ideals  worth  dying  for." 

"  For  truth,"  I  murmured. 

Margaret  smiled  at  me.  "  Who  but  a  fool  would  die  for  truth? 
Knowing  that  his  truth  was  but  a  fragment  of  a  vision  —  seen  all 
distorted  —  that  might  be  falsehood  to-morrow." 

"  Martyrs  are  n't  made  in  that  spirit,"  I  retorted. 

"  Wise  men  are.     Sane  men,  that  love  the  earth." 

"  And  being  earthy,  love  their  own  dirty  bodies  too  well  to  risk 
them,"  Oliver  growled. 

"  Is  it  worse  to  cherish  one's  body  than  it  is  to  cherish  and  in- 
dulge one's  soul  in  the  way  that  Kersent  is  preparing  to  do?  It 's 
really  only  indulgence  on  his  part,  for  he  doesn't  believe  that 
the  soul  is  a  spirit  persisting  after  death." 

Kersent  looked  at  Margaret  with  a  direct  anger.  "  You  're 
quibbling,"  he  said.  "  When  I  said  that  no  other  ideal  was  fit  to 
die  for,  I  meant  only  that  it  was  the  highest  possible.  Men  have 
died,  and  always  will  die  for  lesser  ideals  —  and  all  honor  to 
them.  Men  have  been  killed  in  the  name  of  lesser  ideals.  Never 
was  such  a  trail  of  blood  as  that  left  by  the  most  successful  of 
ideals  —  the  Christian  Church.  But  a  man  who  kills  for  his  ideal, 
who  goes  to  war  for  it,  only  defames  it.  I  would  not  fight  for 
my  ideal,  not  because  of  its  unworthiness,  but  because  of  its  too 


258  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

great  worth.  There  is  no  ideal  worth  killing  for.  All  others 
are  paltry  in  comparison  with  that  of  refusing  to  kill.  It  is  justi- 
fiable only  to  die  for  an  ideal." 

"  Now  you  're  quibbling,"  Margaret  said  coolly,  "  and  the 
quibble  is  really  unworthy  of  you.  The  man  who  prepares  to  kill 
for  an  ideal  prepares  to  die.  It  might  even  be  that  the  words  — 
'  They  that  take  the  sword  shall  perish  with  the  sword  ' —  are  no 
more  a  reproach  than  they  are  a  justification.  They  might  only  be 
to  see  both  sides  of  the  shield  at  once." 

Kersent  laughed  gently.  "  See  how  easy  it  is  to  persuade  one- 
self of  anything,"  he  said.  "  There  is  no  surety  for  the  man  who 
takes  his  stand  on  ground  below  mine.  When  I  assert  my  belief  in 
the  supreme  value  of  human  life,  I  place  myself  and  my  faith  on 
an  unshakable  rock,  above  all  winds  that  blow.  I  assure  you, 
Margaret,  that  this  belief  of  mine  is  not  an  emotional  self-indul- 
gence. Neither  is  it  an  intellectual  or  political  foible.  It 's  my 
reasoned  philosophy,  embraced  after  taking  into  account,  as  far 
as  one  man  may,  the  desires  achieved  and  potential,  that  have 
seemed  to  men  worthy  of  being  gratified,  or  will  come  to  seem 
worthy  of  gratification  to  their  developed  intellect.  Look  at  all 
the  things  to  which  men  have  pinned  their  faith.  To  the  love  of  a 
friend  or  a  woman,  and  the  woman  betrayed  and  the  friend  grew 
cold.  To  their  country  —  and  their  country  slandered  them,  in- 
jured them,  starved  them,  and  when  they  died  made  use  of  their 
life  and  their  labors  to  further  aims  they  had  held  in  life-long 
loathing.  To  truth  —  and  even  as  they  died,  the  cherished  truth 
slipped  from  their  grasp  and  mocked  them  in  its  falseness.  To 
power  —  what  is  power  but  a  striving  and  fretting  against  un- 
assailable barriers?  To  fame  —  and  a  paltry  couple  of  thousand 
years  is  enough  to  make  men  doubt  whether  the  famed  one  were 
man  or  woman  or  legion." 

"  I  don't  know  who  wrote  all  that  unpoetical  balderdash  of 
Beowulf,"  Oliver  interrupted,  "  but  I  should  think  he  'd  be  pretty 
mad  if  he  knew  he  was  only  the  long  process  of  years  selecting 
and  arranging  the  myriad  voices  of  the  folk." 

Kersent  looked  absently  at  him.  "  In  a  few  centuries,"  he  said, 
'*  you  and  your  precious  poems  will  be  as  hard  to  trace  as  your 
imaginary  Celtic  ancestors,  surviving  down  the  ages  in  spite  of 


CHAOS  259 

oppression,  massacre  and  extermination,  to  wring  our  hard  hearts 
and  shame  our  wizened  visioning." 

"Who  says  my  ancestors  are  hard  to  trace  down?"  Oliver 
shouted.  "  We  've  been  in  Yorkshire  for  six  generations,  but  we 
are  descended  from  Kings  of  West  Ireland  who  were  thought 
enough  of  to  be  held  for  gods  after  they  were  dead.  I  can  prove 
it." 

"  For  pity's  sake,"  Margaret  interrupted.  **  What  do  you  take 
us  for?  The  meeting  of  a  Yeats  Society?  Let  Kersent  finish." 

"  I  have  finished,"  Kersent  said.  "  I  have  nothing  to  prove  half 
so  fascinating  as  the  possession  of  ancestors  with  the  morals  of 
goats  and  the  speech  of  Irish  poetasters.  Indeed,  I  have  nothing 
that  I  can  prove.  There  are  certain  things  that  men  have  always 
held  as  valuable  —  the  things  I  have  spoken  of  —  love,  truth, 
all  the  rest  of  them.  I  believe  that  all  these  things  prove  in  the 
end  a  mockery  and  a  half-satisfaction  to  the  man  who  possesses 
them,  or  thinks  himself  to  possess  them.  I  believe  that  the  only 
thing  in  life  whose  value  is  eternally  certain  and  satisfying  is  the 
sanctity  of  life.  You  either  believe  this  or  you  —  don't  Proof 
is  useless  or  a  supererogation.  Mark  that  I  did  n't  just  say  life. 
I  said  the  sanctity  of  life.  I  can  imagine  circumstances  under 
which  I  would  infinitely  prefer  death  to  life.  I  can  imagine  cir- 
cumstances under  which  I  should  doubt  that  in  depriving  a  fellow- 
man  of  life,  I  was  sinning  against  the  highest  vision  I  have.  To 
take  away  life  is  the  ultimate  sin.  It  is  the  supreme  Denial.  It 
is  Antichrist." 

His  voice  broke  on  a  high  thin  note.  We  sat  looking  at  him. 
He  moved  his  head  restlessly  from  side  to  side.  He  was  like  a 
beast  caught  in  a  net. 

"To  will  not  to  kill  is  to  will  only  a  negation,"  Margaret 
said.  She  spoke  as  if  the  words  were  forced  out  of  her. 

"  It  has  another  side,"  Kersent  answered.  "  And  its  other  side 
is  the  will  to  live  more  finely.  That  is  to  say  —  in  more  love  to 
one's  neighbors.  Men  who  believe  as  I  do  will  not  take  life  and 
will  do  their  utmost,  by  the  avoidance  of  offense,  to  take  from 
others  the  temptation  to  kill." 

Oliver  roared  with  laughter.  "To  listen  to  you,"  he  said, 
"  you  'd  think  we  were  in  the  Middle  Ages,  with  the  inquisition  at 


260  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

the  door.  Do  you  see  the  king's  majesty  and  all  the  peers  and 
judges  of  the  realm  rushing  to  spank  Kersent  by  way  of  showing 
him  the  error  of  his  ways?  " 

"Things  might  be  made  disagreeable  for  him  in  wartime,"  I 
said.  "  You  remember  how  in  our  low-minded  and  unphilosophic 
infancy  we  were  persuaded  to  help  smash  old  Carstairs'  plate-glass 
windows  because  some  one  said  he  was  a  Pro-Boer.  We  thought  a 
Pro-Boer  was  a  new  and  despicable  kind  of  person  and  we  were 
filled  with  the  reformer's  zeal." 

"My  father  was  supposed  to  be  a  Pro-Boer,"  Margaret  said. 
**  We  used  to  keep  the  lower  windows  shuttered,  and  once  a 
crowd  of  children  from  the  nearest  village  came  shouting  after  me 
— *  Pro-Boer's  lass,  she  's  a  Pro-Boer's  lass.'  I  hit  at  them  and 
cried." 

We  lost  ourselves  in  reminiscence.  Kersent  sat  silent.  In  the 
gathering  twilight  his  face  took  on  an  odd  air  of  foreboding. 
Margaret's  eyes  kept  turning  to  him,  but  she  did  not  speak  to  him 
again.  When  we  were  walking  down  Shepherd's  Bush  Road  she 
said,  "  If  all  men  were  like  Kersent  there  would  be  no  war.  But 
all  men  are  not,  and  never  will  be.  There  '11  always  be  men  cruel 
and  bigoted  and  jealous  and  greedy.  The  task  is  to  make  a  world 
in  which  the  tyrant,  the  bigot,  the  jealous  and  the  grasping  are 
harmless.  Are  even  given  a  chance  of  release  from  themselves. 
Men  like  Kersent  will  help  to  do  that." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

I  STOOD  on  the  edge  of  the  pavement  in  Shaftesbury  Avenue 
and  read  that  Servia  had  refused  the  Austrian  ultimatum.    As 
I  read  I  heard  Chamberlayn's  eager  voice  as  if  he  spoke  over  my 
shoulder.     "  Will  you  believe  me  when  you  read  that  Servia  re- 
fuses? " 

I  tried  to  understand  the  implications  of  the  refusal.  The 
solid  world  seemed  reeling  under  my  feet.  A  phantom  traffic 
swung  and  roared  past  me.  I  stood  in  a  crowd  of  hurrying  phan- 
toms, under  a  white  sky,  trying  to  grasp  things  that  eluded  me 
on  every  side,  queer  things  looming  behind  the  phantoms,  as 
blurred  and  indefinite  as  they,  but  menacing  and  insistent.  The 
world  as  I  knew  it  was  cracking  and  falling  apart  before  my 
eyes.  I  peered  through  the  cracks  at  a  world  where  even  the 
common  things  of  life  took  on  a  strange  significance.  I  had 
prided  myself  on  my  clear  sight.  I  had  said  —  the  comfortable 
assurances  of  the  satisfied  citizen  are  not  for  me.  It  seemed  that  I 
also  had  been  living  in  a  world  of  comfortable  assurances.  I 
wrestled  with  the  immensity  of  the  gulf  that  opened  in  front  of 
me.  We  had  all  of  us  become  small  —  Margaret  and  her  ordeal 
and  my  love,  Chamberlayn's  ambition,  and  Mick's  —  small  and 
remote.  They  receded  and  dwindled.  Kersent's  face  as  it  had 
been  on  that  night  when  we  talked  of  war  hung  for  a  moment 
before  my  eyes,  sharp  and  distinct,  a  tiny  image  flung  on  a  vast 
screen. 

There  followed  a  time  of  peculiar  tension.  We  bought  and  read 
our  papers  with  a  half-guilty  air  of  expectancy.  That  England 
should  fight  again  in  Europe  was  incredible.  We  reminded  our- 
selves that  she  had  held  back  in  1870.  We  spoke  of  our  fear  lest 
she  should  fight  now.  Quite  suddenly  we  were  conscious  of  a 
fear  that  she  would  not  fight. 

The  tension  was  lightened  for  us  one  evening  by  Margaret's 
quarrel  with  a  theological  student  in  the  quadrangle  of  King'*. 

261 


262  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

We  were  standing  there  waiting  for  Oliver  when  the  holy  man 
rushed  up  to  us.  His  name  was  Farrel:  we  both  knew  him 
slightly.  We  used  to  keep  up  a  fiction  that  Kersent  had  killed 
him  in  debate,  flinging  his  torn  limbs  under  the  benches,  and  that 
the  Farrel  who  walked  about  the  corridors  was  a  disembodied 
spirit  blown  out  with  the  breath  of  sanctity  and  sent  to  haunt  Ker- 
sent for  his  contumacy. 

He  was  panting  with  excitement.  "  It 's  war,"  he  cried.  "  Do 
you  know,  I  '11  swear  it 's  war.  There 's  nothing  in  the  papers  yet. 
I  've  just  been  out  and  bought  one  to  see.  But  I  met  Chadding 
coming  out  of  the  Principal's  room,  and  he  was  saying  over  his 
shoulder,  'Oh,  there's  no  chance  of  peace:  it's  only  a  matter  of 
hours.'  And  you  know  Chadding's  brother  is  in  the  Foreign 
Office." 

"  You  seem  damned  pleased,"  I  said. 

Melancholy  descended  on  him  like  a  cloud.  His  very  hair  be- 
came lank  and  drooping. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  answered.  "  Oh,  dear  man,  no.  Who  would  re- 
joice at  war?  But  if  we  fight  it  will  be  a  holy  war." 

"  Why,  who  the  devil  told  you  that?  "  I  cried.  "  You  've  been 
peeping  through  Archbishops'  keyholes  and  listening  at  cracks  in 
their  doors.  Common  folk  like  the  rest  of  us  have  n't  been  told 
that  yet." 

"  Why  should  England  fight,  if  not  to  keep  freedom  for  weak 
countries  like  Servia?  And  if  we  fight  for  freedom  it  is  a  holy 
war."  He  was  perfectly  clear  on  the  point,  and  amazed  at  our 
dullness.  He  forgot  to  be  mournful,  and  beamed  with  satisfaction 
as  he  went  over  his  argument  again.  / 

"  It  is  a  Christian  duty,"  he  said. 

I  was  for  leaving  him  to  his  pretty  theology,  but  he  had  irri- 
tated Margaret. 

"  Why  a  Christian  duty?  "  she  said  sharply.  "  Won't  all  the 
nations  at  war  be  officially  Christian?  They  all  accept  the  doc- 
trines of  the  Christ,  erect  innumerable  buildings  to  declare  and 
discuss  them,  and  spend  vast  sums  of  money  and  much  labor  on 
the  upkeep  of  an  intricately  organized  and  influential  religious 
bureaucracy  —  on  the  upkeep  of  you  and  your  likes,  incidentally. 
And  Christ  was  perfectly  clear  on  the  question  of  taking  life.  I 


CHAOS  263 

am  sure  you  know  all  the  correct  texts.  *Love  your  enemies.' 
'Resist  not  evil:  but  whosoever  shall  smite  thee  on  thy  right 
cheek  turn  to  him  the  other  also.'  Do  you  suggest  that  Clyrist 
was  n't  in  His  right  senses  when  He  said  that?  " 

Farrel  blushed  for  her.  "  Oh,  no.  Oh,  dear  no.  I  am  sure 
you  mean  well.  But  haven't  you  heard  —  oh,  you  must  have 
heard  —  that  the  Germans  are  trampling  down  Belgium  to  get  at 
France.  If  Jesus  were  alive  now,  He  would  wish  to  avenge  Bel- 
gium. I  have  not  the  least  doubt  of  it." 

"  Well  to  be  you,"  Margaret  retorted.  "  But  you  do  not  know 
what  Jesus  would  have  done,  and  you  do  know  what  He  said.  No 
amount^rrf  cunning,  and  juggling  with  words  —  be  the  juggler 
never  so  apostolically  ordained  —  can  square  killing  men  with  the 
teaching  of  Christ.  You  profess  to  follow  His  teaching  in  every 
respect,  but  if  you  kill,  or  if  you  advocate  killing,  you  're  acting 
in  direct  contravention  of  your  Master's  repeated  words.  I  don't 
see  how  you  can  get  over  it.  I  'm  not  arguing  that  you  should  n't 
fight.  I  'm  only  pointing  out  that  Christ  forbade  fighting  to  kill, 
and  you  are  supposed  to  be  an  expert  in  His  commands  and  prohi- 
bitions." 

Margaret  has  a  clear  voice,  and  in  her  anger  it  becomes  extraor- 
dinarily clearer.  A  little  crowd  of  students  had  gathered  round 
us.  She  did  not  seem  to  notice  them,  intent  on  her  argument. 
I  daresay  she  was  arguing  as  much  for  her  own  enlightenment  as 
for  the  annihilation  of  Farrel.  Farrel  was  hardly  worth  the 

trouble.  .      , 

"  I  mean,"  she  said,  "  that  if  to  break  the  law  in  one  point 
to  break  it  in  all  —  and  you  yourself  have  said,  on  the  authority  of 
your  Doctors,  that  this  is  so— then  you  're  simply  not  a  Christian. 
"  Oh  I  can't  admit  that,"  Farrel  stammered. 
Margaret  shrugged.     "  It  does  n't  matter  whether  you  adm.t  it 
or  not,"  she  said.     "The  sophism  of  your  Church  on  this  poir 
remains  indefensible.     In  the  old  days,  Churchmen  made  wars, 
and  to-day  they  condone  them.     But  it  is  the  blunt  fact  that  what- 
ever or  whoever  has  to  do  with  war  is  not  Christ-like.    The  Church 
—  I  mean  all  organized  Christianity  except  an  odd  sect  or  two  — 
long  since  threw  overboard  a  cardinal  point  in  the  teaching 
the  man  whom  it  calls  its  divine  Founder.    Why  can't  you  be  hon- 


264  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

est  about  it?  Of  course,  no  one  really  cares  nowadays  what 
you  've  thrown  overboard  or  what  you  Ve  kept.  Who  would  look 
in  the  Church  for  simple  faith  and  honesty?  Why,  if  you  —  your 
priests  and  ministers  —  were  to  come  out  with  an  honest  declara- 
tion of  a  revised  and  selected  Christianity,  the  world  might  posi- 
tively be  startled  into  taking  you  seriously.  But  far  from  at- 
tempting honesty,  your  Church  has  overlaid  its  betrayal  with  a 
perfect  colossal  monument  of  theologies.  You  can  see  for  your- 
self. Hardly  a  soul  would  think  it  strange  that  you,  a  preacher  of 
Christ,  should  be  blessing  the  slaying  of  your  fellow-men.  Once 
upon  a  time,  the  first  people  to  call  themselves  Christians  went  un- 
resisting to  their  death.  They  had  no  doubt  but  they  were  in  the 
right.  In  fact,  they  shared  your  happy  certitude,  but  as  it  hap- 
pens, with  an  absolutely  contrary  conviction.  Since  that  day  their 
company  has  not  increased.  It  has  diminished.  Your  Church  is 
about  two  thousand  years  of  time  from  its  founder.  In  spirit  it 's 
about  a  million  years  away.  It  touches  His  spirit  only  in  minor 
points.  Look  for  yourself.  The  Church  is  rich.  Was  Christ 
rich?  It  is  militant.  Was  He  militant?  It  is  bigoted.  Was  He 
a  bigot?  " 

She  became  abruptly  conscious  that  her  audience  had  grown 
until  it  filled  the  steps  and  overflowed  into  the  quad.  With  a  nod 
of  farewell  to  Farrel  she  hurried  me  away.  We  heard  Parrel's 
high-pitched  voice  raised  in  voluble  refutation  of  her  heresies. 

We  held  our  last  Eikonoklast  meeting  that  night.  I  described 
the  scene  in  the  quad. 

"  Oh,  good  for  Margaret,"  Oliver  said.  "  Of  course  she  was 
talking  rot,  but  who  cares  so  long  as  it  disturbed  the  Farrel  in  his 
den?  " 

"  It  was  n't  rot,"  Kersent  interrupted.  "  It 's  literally  true  that 
the  man  who  bases  his  refusal  on  the  words  of  the  Christ  is  all 
that  is  left  of  the  disciples.  I  should  say  that  Christ  had  a  few 
odd  thousand  followers  to-day.  I  don't  profess  to  be  one  of  them 
myself,  but  I  Ve  this  in  common  with  the  unpruned  Christian  — 
that  we  don't  regard  anything  as  justification  for  the  taking  of 
human  life." 

"Then  why  don't  we  turn  out  a  revised  Christianity?  "  I  said 


CHAOS  265 

idly.     "  A  sort  of  new  Creed.    This  I  believe  and  this  I  cast  from 
me." 

"  Well,  you  can  see  how  dangerous  such  a  course  is.  If  you 
begin  by  casting  out  one  point  of  faith,  why  should  you  stop  at 
that  one?  " 

"  We  haven't,  of  course,"  I  said.  "  Our  Christian  world  does 
n't  give  of  its  two  cloaks  to  him  that  hath  none,  and  it  does  n't 
love  its  business  neighbor  as  itself.  We  ought,  in  honesty,  to  stop 
babbling  of  what  Christ  would  have  said  if  He  'd  been  preaching 
in  the  City  Temple  on  Sunday,  and  say  right  out  that  we  can't 
follow  His  doctrine  as  He  laid  it  down.  In  fact,  that  we'd  be 
craven  fools  if  we  did.  We  should  say:  there  are  some  circum- 
stances in  which  men  must  prepare  to  slay  men:  we  reject  the 
Christ  standard  of  values:  our  high  tradition  sometimes  leads  us 
up  over  the  slain  bodies  of  our  fellows." 

"  Then,  of  course,"  Kersent  added,  "  you  'd  be  challenged  to 
name  the  circumstances.  You  '11  have  to  find  a  higher  value  than 
the  Christ-value  of  unresisting  endurance  of  injury." 

"  God  knows  what  you  all  think  you  're  talking  about,"  Cham- 
berlayn  interrupted.  "  What  the  devil  could  a  man  want  more 
to  fight  than  to  defend  the  power  and  glory  of  his  own  country? 
I  mean  —  it 's  awful  rot  to  talk  about  it,  really,  but  if  you  must 
talk  about  it,  that's  the  fact,  isn't  it?  "  He  glared  at  Kersent. 
"  You  don't  want  Englishmen  to  be  scattered  over  the  world  like 
beastly  Jews?  Though  of  course  you  can't  really  kill  a  race  by 
scattering  it.  The  spirit  of  race  is  immortal."  He  produced  this 
aphorism  with  the  air  of  a  serious  man  who  descends  to  bandy 
wits. 

Kersent  groaned  aloud.  "Oh,  my  God,  has  Oliver  been  talk- 
ing to  you  about  the  Celt?  I  suppose  Matthew  Arnold  is  really 
to  blame.  He  set  us  groping  in  a  Celtic  twilight  after  a  flame- 
haired,  blue-eyed  wraith,  impulsive  of  deed,  lofty  of  thought,  gen- 
erous of  spirit,  full  of  strange  oaths  and  literary  inversions  of 
speech.  Who  will  rid  me  of  the  body  of  this  death?  Who'll 
stake  it  down  in  the  ancient  past  so  that  we  can  see  face  to  face 
the  Irishman  and  Welshman  of  the  day's  reality  —  grasping,  un- 
imaginative, unless  imagination  be  vested  in  spook-ridden  poets, 


266  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

generous  and  ungenerous,  brave  and  craven,  common  like  the  rest 
of  common  men?  Man,  there  is  no  Celt  such  as  ye  hunger  for. 
Maybe  the  Celt  of  your  tradition  lives  a  vicarious  and  fragmentary 
life  in  the  blood  of  half  the  races  of  the  world.  I  'm  damned  if  he 
exists  anywhere  else." 

"  Then,"  said  Chamberlayn  triumphantly  ,"  if  you  want  to  pre- 
serve a  nationality  you  '11  have  to  fight  for  it,  or  else  be  scattered 
and  blotted  out." 

"  Is  nationality  worth  fighting  for?  "  I  interrupted. 

"  Oh,  if  you  're  going  to  get  on  to  your  paradoxes !  "  He  flung 
up  his  hands. 

"  There 's  no  paradox  about,"  I  laughed.  "  Sniff  again,  old  fox. 
But  listen  a  minute.  England  submitted  to  the  Norman,  and  in 
course  of  time  English  and  Norman  disappeared  into  the  making 
of  a  subtly  different  Englishman.  Suppose  Germany  conquered 
England  and  reduced  Englishmen  to  an  inferior  status.  .  .  ." 

"  They  would  n't  submit  to  it." 

"  Whether  they  did  or  did  n't,  the  end  of  a  German  occupation 
would  be  the  evolution  of  a  different  Englishman.  Something 
would  be  lost  to  him,  but  was  it  worth  struggling  for?  Look  at 
the  Pole.  He  has  scratched  his  itching  national  aspiration  until 
it  is  a  fever  in  his  blood,  destroying  body  and  mind.  Is  it  worth 
it?  After  all,  what  is  the  value  to  a  people  of  the  peculiar  qual- 
ity of  its  Being  known  as  its  nationality?  " 

"  Exactly  nothing,"  Kersent  said  bluntly.  "  As  a  matter  of  fact 
it  simply  doesn't  exist.  There  are  no  races  or  nations:  there 
are  only  men  and  other  men.  Pride  of  nationality  is  an  atavistic 
ghost  blown  into  a  seeming  of  vitality  by  the  bad  breath  of 
politicians  and  self-seekers.  Of  course,  if  you  look  at  them  from 
one  angle  of  vision,  the  peoples  of  the  world  fall  apart  into  sharp, 
almost  antagonistic  groups.  But  if  you  look  at  them  straight 
they  '11  sort  themselves  out  in  such  a  way  that  to  find  your  spiritual 
kin,  my  dear  Chamberlayn,  I  should  probably  have  to  hunt 
am6ng  the  tribes  of  Central  Africa,  or  somewhere  else  where  they 
still  worship  fetishes  and  ju-ju  men." 

Jack  became  incoherent. 

No  doubt  the  spiritual  brother  of  Erasmus  Butterby  lives  in 
a  mud  kraal  and  knowing  nought  of  broadcloth  — "  the  best 


CHAOS  267 

broadcloth  from  the  best  mills,  my  boy  " —  decorates  his  paunch 
with  beads. 

But  there  are  some  disadvantages  in  viewing  the  races  of  man- 
kind from  the  standpoint  of  spiritual  kinship.  I  take  the  chiefest 
to  be  that  there  is  so  feeble  a  spirit  in  the  worst  of  us  and  so 
variable  a  spirit  in  the  best  of  us  as  to  make  nonsense  of  the 
saying,  "  There  are  no  races  and  nations,  but  only  men  and 
other  men."  You  have  to  multiply  the  individual  human  spirit 
by  hundreds  of  his  fellows  before  you  get  a  spirit  to  juggle 
with  at  all.  The  spirit  of  the  wild  ox  is  something  of  a  flicker: 
reinforced  by  the  spirit  of  the  rest  of  its  herd  it  becomes  a 
formidjrWe  flame.  This  is  not  the  only  analogy  between,  men 
and  oxen. 

Even  a  nation  of  slaves  may  achieve  something  of  distinction 
in  its  national  manifestations  of  spirit.  May  even  at  times  so 
pour  into  one  man  the  suppressed  fire  of  its  aspirations  as  to  light 
a  beacon  for  the  world.  So  with  the  Jews  and  Christ. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ON  the  day  of  the  declaration  of  war  we  met  in  the  basement 
at  Hammersmith.     We  had  made  no  appointment  with  each 
other.     Margaret  and  I  had  gone  there  to  pack  up  our  books  and 
arrange  for  their  removal.     Shortly  Kersent  came  in,  and  then 
Chamberlayn  and  Oliver  together. 

Outside  the  footsteps  of  the  passers-by  rang  on  the  iron 
grating  above  the  narrow  area.  They  went  with  nervous  speed, 
or  shuffled  languidly.  I  found  myself  listening  to  them,  weaving 
patterns  in  their  ceaseless  rhythm.  In  the  dim  basement  a 
leashed  excitement  drew  us  together.  We  sat  round  the  place 
on  packing  cases  and  piles  of  newspapers.  Kersent  and  Margaret 
went  on  methodically  sorting  out  the  books  on  the  shelves  while 
the  rest  of  us  talked.  I  do  not  know  whether  Chamberlayn 
realized  Kersent's  attitude  to  war.  For  some  time  he  ignored 
Kersent  and  devoted  his  attention  to  me.  I  was  putting  up  a 
half -deliberate  pretense  at  hesitation.  I  hated  to  be  rushed  into 
anything,  even  into  war,  and  I  was  quite  ready  to  argue  about  it. 

"  Good  God,  man,"  Chamberlayn  said,  "  you  're  not  going  to 
tell  us  it 's  not  necessary  to  fight.  We  did  n't  ask  for  war,  but 
now  it 's  here  it 's  got  to  be  won.  I  know  you  're  no  shirker,  but 
your  mind  's  so  full  of  kinks  .  .  ." 

"Somebody  must  have  been  asking  for  war,"  Kersent  mur- 
mured. "  You  said  Germany  was  preparing  for  it,  France  hoping 
for  revenge,  and  your  friend  the  brigadier  expecting  it.  I  dare- 
say he  faced  the  prospect  with  no  undue  horror,  except  at  the 
thought  that  we  were  n't  ready.  Seems  to  me  there 's  been  a 
good  many  Sister  Annes  hanging  out  of  turret  windows  looking 
for  a  cloud  of  dust." 

"  That 's  all  very  well,"  Chamberlayn  retorted,  "  but  it  has 
nothing  to  do  with  us  who  are  young.  We  didn't  start  it." 

"  When  we  know  a  little  more  about  it,  I  daresay  we  '11  find 
that  it  came  out  of  the  follies  and  sins  of  the  past,"  I  said. 

268 


CHAOS  269 

**  Devil  take  its  beginnings,"  Chamberlayn  cried.  "  Ain't  it 
enough  that  we  're  faced  by  the  danger  of  a  German  Europe?  " 

"Is  it  possible?  "  Kersent  interrupted  smoothly.  "Whatever 
makes  you  suppose  that  there  are  fools  in  existence  who  dream 
of  a  European  Kingdom?  And  even  if  it  were  accomplished 
and  Germany  dominated  it,  what  difference  would  it  make  to  the 
millions  of  us?  " 

He  finished  the  packing  of  the  last  case,  and  seated  himself 
carefully  on  the  top  of  it.  "  You  're  not  fools,"  he  said  slowly. 
"You  don't  really  believe  that  the  only  statesmen  who  dream 
of  turning  the  lower  classes  into  well-bred  slaves  dwell  on 
t  'othet  side  the  Rhine  and  cry  Hoch  at  the  sight  of  sauerkraut. 
Every  modern  State  is  rotten  and  built  on  self-interest  and 
greed.  I  would  n't  raise  a  finger  to  save  one  of  them."  He 
lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  Chamberlayn.  "  I  might  as  well 
be  frank  about  it.  I  don't  intend  to  fight.  I  don't  suppose 
they  'd  take  me  as  a  fighter."  He  shrugged  his  thin  shoulders. 
"But  there  are  things  I  could  do.  Only,  I  will  take  no  part 
in  war.  I  can't  go  over  it  all  again." 

Chamberlayn  stared  at  him.  "  No  part?  What  d  'you  mean? 
You  can't  help  taking  part." 

"lean  — and  shall." 

Chamberlayn  got  to  his  feet.  I  suppose  that  in  that  moment 
all  the  pent  forces  of  his  hatred  of  Kersent  burst  up  and  swept 
away  his  lingering  consideration  for  Kersent's  frailty.  "You 
poor  fool,"  he  stammered.  "  Oh,  you  poor  fool !  " 

He  poured  on  Kersent  a  torrent  of  denunciation. 

Interruption  came  unexpectedly.  Margaret  ran  across  the 
room  and  shook  his  arm.  "Be  quiet,"  she  said.  "We  know 
your  heart  is  in  the  right  place,  and  your  head  is  not  quite 
hopeless,  but  you  '11  make  us  want  to  prove  both  in  the  wrong. 
Can't  you  see  that  we've  none  of  us  had  time  to  think  things 
out  yet?  " 

"Oh,  for  pity's  sake,"  he  shouted,  "don't  let's  think  about 
it.  If  we  think  long  enough  we  '11  all  be  Kersents." 

Margaret  laughed  at  him  a  little  wildly.  "  Yes,  that 's  just  you. 
You  '11  take  any  sort  of  risk,  make  any  wild  jump,  consent  to  any 
patching  up  and  hiding  of  rottenness  —  if  only  you  're  not  asked 


270  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

to  take  the  trouble  of  thinking  it  out  beforehand.  You  get 
irritated  when  you  think.  It 's  because  you  have  n't  thought 
deep  enough.  You  've  only  scratched  at  your  mind  and  irritated 
it.  Kersent  has  thought  deeply,  but  only  in  his  own  nature. 
He  thinks  Germans  would  all  be  Kersents  if  you  gave  them  a 
chance." 

"Eh!  "  said  Chamberlayn.     "What  does  it  matter?  " 
A   dull   calm   succeeded   his   outburst.     He   began    searching 
for  his  hat.     He  found  it  and  turned  to  Kersent. 

"  I  've  nothing  more  to  say.     You  can  sit  here  in  your  cellar. 
I  don't  know  if  I  called  you  a  coward  just  now.     If  I  did  I  take  it 
back  and  apologize  for  it.     The  mischief  's  in  your  mind.     It 's 
your  mind  I  really  loathe.     You  bloody  Pilate!  " 
He  went  out  and  Oliver  followed  him. 

"Are  you  coming?  "  I  asked  Kersent.     He  shook  his  head. 
In  the  doorway  Margaret  hesitated.     She  walked  back  across 
the  room,  and  stood  beside  him. 

"  We  Ve  not  always  been  the  best  of  friends,"  she  said,  "  and 
I  don't  agree  with  you  now.     But  if  there's  ever  anything  you 
want  doing  that  I  can  do,  you  will  let  me?  " 
"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  without  stirring. 
We  went  out  and  left  him  sitting  there. 

I  stood  next  day  in  the  upper  windows  of  a  newspaper  office 
in  Fleet  Street,  watching  while  the  khaki-clad  companies  went  by. 
I  think  they  were  Territorials.  They  had  their  band,  and  the 
drums  rolled  in  the  distance.  I  tried  to  quiet  the  throbbing 
of  my  heart. 

I  told  myself  that  it  behooved  every  man  to  think  out  the 
question  of  his  duty.  Kersent  had  thought  it  out.  We  were 
surely  past  the  days  when  men  went  blindly  to  fight  in  any  war, 
caring  nought  for  its  injustice.  I  called  up  a  scorn  of  my  own 
emotion.  The  whole  of  my  ancient  distrust  of  a  Butterby-ap- 
proved  Empire  rushed  to  join  itself  to  that  scorn.  I  thought  — 
"  I  'm  damned  if  I  '11  run  like  a  fool  because  drums  beat  and 
flags  wave.  I  '11  understand  things  first." 

I  went  down  into  the  street.  There  among  the  crowds  standing 
along  the  pavement,  I  ran  into  Dora.  He  stood  with  his  hands 


CHAOS  271 

in  his  pockets  and  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  smiling  while 
other  folks  cheered.  I  had  not  seen  him  for  months.  He  greeted 
me  cheerfully. 

"  What  sort  of  a  feeling  does  military  music  rouse  in  you?  " 
I  asked  him  curiously. 

"This  sort  of  thing?"  He  waved  a  hand  at  the  excited 
crowd.  "Oh  pity,  chiefly  —  to  think  that  there  are  so  many 
fools  in  the  world." 

"  It  doesn't  make  you  want  to  rush  off  and  join  them?  " 

"Good  Lord,  no.  Do  you  take  me  for  a  fool?  "  He  flung 
back  His  head  and  laughed.  "  Fight?  Me?  Fight  for  a  lot  of 
bloody-minded  capitalists?  Fight  for  George  and  Mary?  Not 
me.  Give  me  a  barricade  across  a  street  and  something  worth 
fighting  for,  and  I  '11  fight,  by  God  I  will." 

He  nodded  to  a  man  crossing  the  road  in  the  wake  of  the 
released  traffic.  "  A  man  you  ought  to  know,"  he  said.  "  Landon. 
Landon  of  the  '  Beacon.'  He  and  I  are  starting  a  peace  cam- 
paign right  away."  He  introduced  us.  I  had  the  curiosity  to 
ask  Landon  to  explain  his  point  of  view.  But  he  and  Dora 
were  both  so  irritatingly  sure  that  my  intellect  could  not  compass 
the  heights  and  depths  of  their  pacifist  philosophy  that  I  lost 
them  in  the  crowd. 

The  conviction  grew  within  me  that  my  place  was  with  Oliver 
and  Chamberlayn.  As  in  our  Hammersmith  experiment  we  had 
found  it  imperative  to  fly  from  thoughts  to  deeds,  so  now  I 
turned  instinctively  to  action.  At  the  moment  I  did  not  care 
much  on  which  side  I  was  so  long  as  it  was  not  Dora's.  And 
there  for  the  present  I  left  my  reflections. 

I  do  not  know  whether  I  went  into  the  war  to  save  my  soul. 
It  is  a  delicate  question.  Kersent  remained  at  home  to  save 
his.  He  lost  his  life  and  I  my  eyesight.  At  any  rate  I  have 
proved  to  my  own  satisfaction  that  the  soul  dwells  not  in  the 
eyes.  Kersent  has  been  able  to  make  the  final  test.  Who  shall 
say  what  he  has  proved  and  discovered  ? 

I  must  have  met  Charlotte  later  on  that  same  day,  Charlotte 
of  the  T.  P.'s  Circle.  I  have  a  vague  remembrance  of  talking 
to  her  in  some  cafe.  A  little  sharper  of  feature,  a  little  cloudier 


272  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

of  brain,  a  little  more  discontented  was  Charlotte.  She  said 
amazingly,  "  Well,  if  the  Germans  do  conquer  England,  at  least 
they  will  get  plays  like  mine  produced." 

There  was  with  her  a  fat  and  famous  journalist,  who  fixed 
me  with  a  satyric  eye  and  said,  "What  does  it  matter  whether 
this  war  be  righteous  or  a  madness?  Better  it  were  madness. 
The  glory  of  the  warrior  is  not  in  the  justice,  but  in  the  in- 
justice of  the  fight.  That  men  should  pour  away  life  for  a 
madness!  The  heroic  age  is  come  again!  i 


CHAPTER  X 

I  HAVE  to  record  a  gradual  slackening  of  enthusiasm.  In  the 
early  days  of  the  war  I  easily  persuaded  myself  that  we  were 
moving  to  that  social  unity  of  which  we  had  imagined  the  faint 
stirring  in  our  Brixton  circle,  in  the  art  circles  of  Chelsea,  in  a 
dozen 'other  side  eddies  of  the  national  life.  I  believed  that  we 
stood  at  a  place  in  the  upward  path  of  humanity  where  all  those 
forces  that  drive  man  beyond  the  narrow  circle  of  his  egoistic 
sympathies  were  bursting  into  conscious  life.  Impossible  that 
the  chance  would  be  missed.  The  tremendous  winged  forces 
that  beat  so  blindly  against  the  distrusts  of  class  and  sex  and 
age  would  be  set  free,  and  like  Pegasus,  return  to  the  hands  of 
their  masters  and  be  guided  through  the  stars.  We  should  be 
a  nation  of  brothers.  A  new  age  was  being  born,  an  age  in  which 
all  the  khmaels,  rich  and  poor,  would  find  their  place  in  a 
commonalty  of  service. 

Upon  my  word,  I  talked  like  Erasmus  Butterby  and  never 
thought  of  him  once. 

To  tell  the  truth,  there  was,  during  the  first  months  of  the  war, 
a  thaw  in  the  ice  barriers  between  class  and  class.  It  did  not  last. 
The  barriers  hardened  again  with  astonishing  rapidity.  Beneath 
the  much  talk  of  unity,  the  old  hostilities  reared  angry  heads. 

I  gave  up  reading  the  "  Beacon."  It  irritated  me  so  with  its 
futile  pin-pricks  of  jealousy,  and  its  whimper  of  remonstrance. 
I  gave  up  looking  to  England  to  nourish  a  new  state  between 
her  ancient  breasts.  After  all,  said  I,  states  are  not  born  like 
that. 

I  became  absorbed  in  the  efforts  of  individuals.  For  a  long 
time  I  tried  to  keep  in  touch  with  Kersent.  During  the  first  year 
of  the  war  he  remained  lecturing  at  King's.  He  read  a  paper  to 
the  Oxford  Philosophical  Society.  He  drew  breath  after  his 
terrible  struggle  for  the  things  that  were  life  to  him. 

I  do  not  think  that  the  question  of  his  views  on  war  arose  at 
all  during  this  time.  Certainly  he  never  proclaimed  them.  Jn 

273 


274  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

one  of  his  letters  he  wrote,  "  I  wonder  what  Chadding  would 
say  if  he  knew  my  opinion  of  his  patriotic  eruptions.  He  said 
at  a  dinner  last  week  that  there  was  not,  in  the  whole  of  German 
philosophy,  one  single  doctrine  that  was  more  than  a  developing 
and  a  subtilizing  of  the  howl  of  the  wolf  pack.  I  wish  to  God 
I  had  the  courage  to  remind  him  of  his  book  on  Hegel  wherein 
he  compares  that  gentleman  to  a  mountain  whose  head  is  veiled 
in  the  serene  clouds  and  whose  feet  stand  firm-rooted  in  the 
warm  vibrant  life  of  humanity.  He  has  never  asked  me  what 
I  make  of  the  war.  I  think  poorly  of  myself  for  concealing  my 
opinions  from  him.  Indeed,  I  live  in  dread  of  the  day  when  I 
can  no  longer  conceal  them.  I  dread  most  of  all  that  I  should 
find  within  myself  the  cowardice  to  deny  them." 

I  wrote  and  told  him  that  I  saw  no  reason  why  he  should 
proclaim  his  opinions.  After  that  I  heard  from  him  no  more, 
and  on  my  next  leave  I  went  to  look  him  up.  I  went  to  King's, 
and  was  told  that  he  had  left  the  college.  I  sought  him  next  in 
Walthamstow. 

He  was  there.  The  family  had  taken  another  room  in  the  house 
where  they  had  always  lived.  It  was  fitted  up  as  a  study  and 
sitting-room  for  Kersent.  His  mother  opened  the  door  nervously 
and  showed  me  in. 

I  was  stricken  with  horror  at  Kersent's  appearance.  His  face 
had  taken  on  the  aspect  of  a  transparent  mask.  One  could  almost 
see  the  taut  nerves  straining  in  the  emaciated  body.  He  ex- 
plained briefly  that  Chadding  had  asked  him  to  attest  under  the 
Derby  scheme. 

"  It  was  purely  a  matter  of  form,  he  told  me.  There  would 
be  no  question  of  my  joining  the  army  even  if  I  were  accepted. 
Only,  for  the  look  of  the  thing,  I  must  offer  my  services."  Kersent 
paused,  "By  God,  Hearne,  I  nearly  attested."  He  laughed; 
I  stared  fascinated  at  the  grotesque  movements  of  his  facial 
muscles.  "  However,  I  did  n't.  Chadding  wanted  to  know  why, 
and  I  told  him.  Oh,  they  did  n't  drop  me  right  away.  They 
reasoned  with  me.  They  tried  to  persuade  me  to  offer  my  services 
to  the  Red  Cross.  Chadding  said — 'My  dear  fellow,  what  on 
earth  does  it  matter?  You  won't  be  accepted.  You  're  not 
fit,  and  in  any  case,  we  should  retain  you  here.'  I  believe  it  was 


CHAOS  275 

my  obstinacy  that  irritated  them.  I  resigned  to  save  them  the 
trouble  of  showing  me  the  door." 

The  pity  burned  in  my  throat. 

"  Man,"  I  urged,  "  why  can't  you  take  your  share?  You  don't 
need  to  fight  and  kill.  There  are  other  ways  of  fighting." 

A  somber  flame  sprang  into  his  eyes.  "  Why  should  I  fight 
at  all?  "  he  said  harshly.  "  Could  the  Germans  do  worse  to  me 
than  my  own  countrymen  have  done?  Am  I  to  fight  for  the 
inestimable  boon  of  having  been  born  in  fear,  bred  in  misery, 
and  starved  all  my  life?  Ask  a  pig  to  defend  his  stye." 

"Don't  you  care  at  all  for  the  ideals  in  peril?  "  I  said  des- 
perately. 

He  laughed  his  thin,  mocking  laugh.  "  Ideals?  You  talk 
to  me  of  ideals?  Ideals  that  have  produced  me?  "  He  beat  his 
hands  on  his  chest. 

"  Can't  you  look  beyond  yourself?  " 

"  What  shall  I  see  when  I  do  ?  A  universal  carnage  in  which 
you  ask  me  to  join." 

We  sat  in  silence  until  Kersent  rose.  "  You  'd  better  go,"  he 
said.  "  We  have  nothing  to  say  to  each  other.  Thanks  very 
much  for  coming." 

I  had  great  ado  not  to  run  from  the  house  to  hide  my  anguish. 
"  What  are  you  doing?  "  I  asked. 

**  Just  at  present,  teaching  in  a  preparatory  school  that  hap- 
pened to  be  in  urgent  need  of  teachers.  I  do  not  know  what  I 
shall  do  next." 

In  the  outer  room  his  mother  cried  as  she  went  to  open  the 
door  for  me.  "  He  was  so  happy,"  she  whispered,  looking  nerv- 
ously to  see  that  Kersent  had  shut  the  door  of  his  room.  "  He 
was  so  happy.  Why  could  n't  they  let  him  be?  " 

A  bent  figure  by  the  fireplace  lifted  its  head  and  scratched  at 
its  wrinkled  neck  with  long  black  nails.  "  Oh,  ay,  happy,"  Ker- 
sent's  father  said,  "  happy,  as  fools  be  happy.  I  told  him.  Now 
it 's  come  to  him." 

The  mother  looked  miserably  from  her  husband  to  the  closed 
door  of  her  son's  room.  If  it  were  not  that  men  are  so  ridiculous, 
how  could  one  bear  their  suffering? 

I  went  looking  for  the  saving  grotesque  and  found  Oliver. 


CHAPTER  XI 

\ 

OLIVER  had  been  discharged  from  the  army  with  the  loss  of 
three  fingers  of  his  left  hand  and  a  slash  down  the  side  of  his 
chest  that  will  pain  him  all  his  life.  I  went  up  north  that  night 
to  see  him  and  my  mother.  He  had  joined  the  army  as  a  private, 
and  held  my  commission  in  unconcealed  contempt.  It  was 
difficult  to  discover  what  he  did  not  hold  in  contempt. 

He  strode  about  our  small  sitting-room,  and  talked  in  a  voice 
of  thunder  against  every  aspect  of  modern  life.  He  damned  it 
root,  branch  and  blossom.  He  said  that  our  society  was  a  swollen 
corpse,  which,  instead  of  producing  bees  produced  horrible  prying 
insects  of  politicians,  and  socialists,  who  were  nothing  but  poli- 
ticians out  of  a  job.  This  charnel-house  atmosphere  he  laid  to 
the  account  of  modern  art. 

"  In  the  Middle  Ages,"  said  he,  "  art  was  not  only  instinct  with 
life  —  it  was  a  part  of  life.  It  lived,  and  men  breathed  it  in  with 
their  common  air.  It  spoke  to  them  in  furniture,  in  tapestries 
whereon  saints  are  received  into  glory,  and  babies  display  their 
nakedness,  and  knights  go  hunting  in  the  gay  greenwood.  It 
sang  for  joy  in  Churches,  letting  imps  and  devils  and  angels 
sport  and  sleep  on  its  huge,  jolly  limbs.  In  the  modern  com- 
mercial age,  art  is  an  excrescence,  at  best  a  protest.  It  stands 
like  Ruth  amid  the  alien  corn,  and  snivels  until  Boaz  comes  along 
with  a  check.  It  can  have  no  part  in  an  order  founded  on  self- 
interest,  for  art  is  always  disinterested.  By  that,  I  mean  that  its 
interests  are  as  wide  as  the  world  and  its  forms  as  many  as  the 
forms  of  life.  But  if  the  forms  of  life  are  all  twisted  and  ugly, 
what  can  art  do  but  fly  from  them  and  build  itself  out  over  the 
air,  held  to  the  earth  by  as  tenuous  a  thread  as  it  can  conceive? 
Futurism  is  the  last  and  worst  expression  of  this  building  out 
over  the  air.  What  the  world's  clowns,  apes,  fools  —  whatever 
you  will  —  call  Naturalism,  is  the  horrible  abortion  that  resulted 
when  art  attempted  to  join  itself  to  modern  life." 

276 


CHAOS  277 

"What  do  you  propose  to  do  about  it?  "  I  interrupted  weakly. 

"Let  me  tell  you.  I  am  an  artist.  Under  the  circumstances 
there  are  only  two  courses  open  to  an  artist.  He  can  either 
be  a  Walter  Crane  and  join  his  art  to  the  last  living  thing  left  in 
the  modern  world  —  the  half-articulate,  volcanic  forces  of  the 
people's  need.  Or  he  can  withdraw  to  the  only  mode  of  life  that 
is  still  fit  to  give  birth  to  art.  I  mean  the  life  of  nature.  I  shall 
be  a  laborer  —  a  peasant.  You  haven't  forgotten  old  Luke 
Pearson?  I  went  to  see  him  last  week.  I  get  a  cottage  and  a 
pound  a  week  to  work  for  him,  and  I  shall  begin  next  month. 
By  God,  I  'm  going  back  to  the  moors  and  the  fields  that  slope 
down  to  the  valley  and  the  wide  meadows  where  the  brown 
streams  leap  between  the  drooping  beech  trees.  I  'm  getting 
back  into  life  as  into  a  garment.  What  a  fool,  what  a  fool  I 
was  ever  to  leave  it  off." 

He  threw  his  huge  arms  above  his  head,  and  the  flames  of  his 
hair  made  him  a  halo  of  fire. 

"  You  '11  weary  of  it  in  a  week,"  I  said. 

For  the  matter  of  that,  he  has  not  wearied  of  it  yet,  nor  has 
my  mother,  who  went  with  her  Benjamin.  I  do  not  suppose  that 
they  will. 

He  took  not  the  slightest  notice  of  me  now,  but  roared  away 
in  the  clouds. 

"Art  and  life  are  one  and  the  same  thing.  Art  is  life  in 
articulate  song.  Art  is  the  rushing  wind  in  the  hair  of  life. 
Tear  them  apart,  and  both  are  maimed,  sterile,  artificial.  The 
divorce  of  art  and  life  is  the  root  of  evil." 

Jove  could  not  have  been  more  inspired.  I  lit  my  pipe  and 
had  pity  of  Juno. 


CHAPTER  XII 

ON  leave  in  London,  sometime  in  the  winter  of  1915,  I  wan- 
dered into  a  Bond  Street  cafe.  The  pinch  of  war  was  tight- 
ening on  the  poorer  people,  but  the  dainty,  soft-shod  women  sat 
here  and  talked  delicate  rubbish  in  the  uninflected  monotonous 
drawl  of  refined  speech. 

"  I  said  to  young  Harburn  that  the  German  women  in  England 
should  be  put  on  the  land.  On  the  land.  Set  to  dig."  She 
poked  a  slender  white  hand  into  the  violets  on  her  muff.  "  Har- 
burn has  the  ear  of  the  Home  Office  —  the  ear,  my  dear  .  .  ." 

A  frail  ingenue  of  thirty  leaned  towards  a  young  officer  who 
wore  the  ribbons  of  four  decorations.  "  We  shall  never  give 
in,  shall  we?  "  she  lisped.  "  We  shall  fight  to  the  last  drop  of 
blood  and  the  last  crumb." 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  brief  second  before  he  said,  "  Of  course." 

I  recognized  old  Lady  Cricklewood,  Jack  Chamberlayn's  ma- 
ternal aunt.  "  I  canteen  at  night,"  she  boomed.  "  I  do  Red 
Cross  charity  work  all  day.  I  Ve  given  recklessly,  recklessly,  my 
love.  And  then  they  say  that  we  of  the  upper  classes  do  not 
realize  the  war,  and  are  not  taking  our  share."  She  lifted  an 
impressive  hand.  "  We  are  the  only  ones  who  do  realize  it. 
What  can  the  working-man  understand  of  the  intricate,  world- 
wide interests  at  stake?  What  is  Imperialism  to  him?  "  She 
sank  her  voice  to  a  thunderous  whisper.  "  Of  course,  I  know  one 
should  n't  say  it,  with  all  this  scandalous  labor  unrest  about, 
but  do  you  —  can  one  indeed  honestly  believe  that  these  people 
feel  losses  as  we  do?  My  nephew  went  back  to  the  front  last 
week.  He  seemed  almost  depressed,  poor  boy.  I  wrote  to  him 
and  said — 'Fight  on.  God  is  with  you.  We  are  with  you.' 
Ah,  what  a  spirit  is  in  the  old  stock." 

I  tried  to  shift  my  chair  out  of  the  range  of  her  eye.  She 
prided  herself  upon  a  memory  for  fapesj  J  thought  that  she 


CHAOS  279 

might  reach  out  a  ponderous  hand  and  pick  me  up  to  be  ques- 
tioned for  the  satisfaction  of  her  cosmic  insolence.  The  move- 
ment brought  me  violently  against  a  small  table  set  back  in  the 
corner.  I  jumped  up  to  apologize  to  a  girl  sitting  there, -half- 
hidden  by  the  curtains.  Olive  Champion  turned  her  head.  After 
a  moment's  sharp  scrutiny  she  held  out  her  hand.  "  How  well 
you  look,"  she  said;  "won't  you  sit  here?  " 

I  took  the  other  chair,  and  wondered  what  I  should  say.  She 
leaned  back  in  her  seat,  and  eyed  me  with  a  deliberate  assurance. 

"  Have  I  changed?  "  she  demanded. 

"  You  are  thinner,"  I  said  doubtfully. 

"And  older  and  wiser,  and  not  so  pretty."  She  laughed. 
"Bones  don't  suit  my  type  of  beauty."  And  then  abruptly  — 
"Where's  Mick?" 

"Hasn't  he "  I  began. 

"  Now,  don't  pretend  you  thought  he  would  have  written  to 
me.  You  knew  he  would  n't  as  well  as  I  did.  Oh,  don't  think  I 
care.  I  am  long  past  that  time.  I  'm  curious." 

"  He 's  in  Barbados,"  I  said.  "  Chief  assistant  on  an  Agricul- 
tural Experiment  Station.  He  has  a  salary  of  £350.  He 's  doing 
brilliant  work.  He  got  his  F.R.S.  this  year  for  his  work  on 
the  diseases  of  cotton.  Immunity  of  native  cotton  to  Blister- 
Mite.  One  of  these  days  he  '11  get  his  chance  to  make  practical 
use  of  his  knowledge  —  commercial  use,  I  mean.  He  '11  be  rich 
perhaps.  He  has  a  white  house,  a  pianola,  and  a  bust  of 
Beethoven."  She  would  not  smile,  and  I  finished  lamely,  "He 
seems  content.  But  then  he  might  any  day  break  away  and 
leave  things,  as  he  did  before." 

She  sat  brooding,  her  head  resting  rather  wearily  on  her  hand. 
Then  she  said  quietly,  "  He  always  said  you  could  n't  make 
money  honestly  in  a  world  so  ill-arranged.  He  said  all  rich 
men's  hands  were  blood-stained." 

"  Perhaps  it 's  different  out  there,"  I  said  weakly. 

She  looked  at  me  with  somber  eyes.  "  It  would  n't  be  different 
anywhere  for  Mick.  He  's  altered  —  or  else  he  did  n't  mean  the 
things  he  said.  Perhaps  he  only  went  to  get  away  from  me." 

A  queer  pity  seized  me.  "  I  think  you  're  wrong,"  I  said. 
"  He  went  because  he  could  n't  stand  the  life  of  a  professional 


280  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

scientist.  It's  a  stupid  life  in  England.  Mick  isn't  made  for 
such  things." 

I  knew  that  I  was  talking  nonsense,  and  I  tried  awkwardly 
to  explain  Michael  to  her.  "  You  're  wrong  about  him,"  I  re- 
peated. "  He  's  a  scientist.  He  's  got  to  be  a  scientist.  Only, 
here,  things  worried  him  and  got  at  him.  The  meanness  and 
harshness  of  life  kept  thrusting  in  upon  his  work  .  .  ." 

I  don't  think  she  listened  to  me. 

"  I  did  n't  believe  in  him  when  he  was  here,"  she  said  slowly. 
"  Since  he  went  I  Ve  made  myself  believe  in  him.  Not  because 
of  himself,  you  know.  But  I  wanted  to  have  something  sure." 
She  laughed  loudly.  "  How  mournful  we  're  getting.  We  might 
be  discussing  a  corpse.  For  pity's  sake,  let's  try  something  a 
little  more  cheerful." 

*'  What  are  you  doing  now?  "  I  asked. 

"I?  Oh,  just  living.  You  wouldn't  know,  of  course,  that 
mother  and  father  have  separated.  I  live  with  mother,  but  it 
is  n't  all  smooth  going.  Mother  's  quite  happy ;  she  has  a  man 
to  take  her  round  and  buy  her  things."  She  grimaced,  and 
leaned  forward  with  an  air  of  reckless  candor.  "  Of  course, 
I  know  what  you  all  think  of  me  —  and  of  mother.  But  I  'm  not 
like  that  really.  It 's  not  good  enough  for  me.  I  must  marry. 
She  would  n't  be  sorry  to  have  me  out  of  the  way.  I  shall  do  the 
best  I  can  for  myself." 

She  gathered  up  her  furs,  and  we  walked  to  the  door. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  I  said. 

"  Home.  I  've  been  round  the  shops.  Everything  is  awfully 
dear.  This  silly  war.  I  'm  going  to  the  Palace  to-night.  I  don't 
suppose  we  shall  meet  again."  She  gazed  across  the  street,  talk- 
ing in  an  absent,  jerky  fashion. 

I  put  her  into  a  taxi. 

"  Where  shall  I  tell  him  to  go?  " 

She  leaned  forward  suddenly.     "  Why  is  n't  Mick  fighting?  " 

"  Oh.  You  did  n't  know.  I  forgot.  He 's  lame.  He  got 
knocked  about  on  that  ship." 

She  started  at  that.  "  Lame?  Mick?  Oh,  how  strange.  I 
think  of  him  as  so  quick  and  eager.  She  settled  herself  against 


CHAOS  281 

the  cushions.     "  Tell  him  —  Belgravia,  Eaton  Terrace.     Good-by. 
Good  luck." 

I  never  saw  or  heard  of  her  again.  I  wrote  and  told  Mick 
of  the  meeting.  His  comment  was  briefly  characteristic.  "  Hope 
she  marries  well,"  he  wrote.  "  I  bear  her  no  ill-will.  And  self- 
preservation  is  a  law  of  immature  life." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

/CHAMBERLAYN  was  killed  a  week  later.  He  had  trained  as 
V_^  an  airman.  "  Building  my  bridges  in  the  air,"  he  had  it. 
He  was  skilful  beyond  the  ordinary,  and  courageous  in  the  com- 
mon way  of  flying  men.  He  held  the  D.S.O.  when  a  German 
airman  shot  him  down  in  his  twenty-fourth  year. 

I  was  at  breakfast  when  a  man  who  had  known  him  came 
into  the  mess  and  asked  us  if  we  had  heard.  Almost  before 
I  could  take  in  the  sense  of  his  casual  words,  I  had  an  instant 
and  vivid  vision  of  Chamberlayn.  He  stood  in  a  darkened  base- 
ment with  his  hands  resting  on  the  table,  and  explained  the 
building  of  bridges  to  an  odd  fifty  of  tired,  work-worn  men.  It 
was  as  if  he  stood  at  the  other  side  of  the  narrow  breakfast-table. 
Then  the  white  cloth  and  the  cups  and  plates  came  back,  and 
shone  where  the  lean  hands  had  pressed  bare  scarred  deal,  and  a 
khaki-covered  shoulder  blotted  the  stooping  body  back  out  of 
life.  I  suppressed  my  cry  of  greeting  and  farewell. 

Death  and  friendship  play  so  swift  a  game  out  there  that 
when  death  wins  there  is  small  time  for  sorrow.  It  is  an  un- 
kindly saying.  But  since  the  one  player  changes  so  often  and  the 
other  never  at  all  the  game  loses  at  last  even  the  interest  of  a 
hazard. 

I  bore  about  with  me  for  days  a  sense  of  loss  that  somehow 
excluded  thought  of  Chamberlayn  himself. 

The  old  Duke  went  out  a  few  months  later.  I  saw  him  a 
week  before  he  died.  He  was  not  ill,  but  he  talked  and  moved 
like  a  man  already  emptied  of  life.  I  thought  that  he  must  have 
drawn  his  life  from  Jack,  and  was  only  waiting  now  for  the 
touch  that  should  crumple  him  into  silence,  a  little  dust  at  the 
end  of  four  centuries  of  life. 

I  had  just  left  the  Duke  when  I  ran  into  Tommy.  I  was  walking 
aimlessly  up  Fleet  Street.  Anthony's  train  was  due  in  two  hours. 

282 


CHAOS  283 

His  leave  and  mine  had  fallen  together  for  the  first  time,  and  we 
meant  London  to  remember  it. 

Tommy  had  with  her  the  little  man  who  had  given  me  cause 
for  so  much  irritation  and  self-abasement  in  the  early  days  of 
our  Scheme.  He  had  not  forgotten  me.  He  stared  at  my  uni- 
form. "The  machine  got  you,  I  see."  He  made  the  remark 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  cannot  take  much  pleasure  in  the 
spectacle  of  folly  just  because  he  has  always  known  the  fool 
to  be  —  a  fool. 

"  It  did  n't  get  you,"  I  answered. 

"  I  should  hope  not."  He  began  to  explain  at  once  that  he  was 
not  one  of  your  snivelling  Christians. 

**  I  don't  care  a  damn  one  way  or  another  about  fighting," 
said  he.  "  I  'd  as  soon  fight  as  not,  if  it  comes  to  that.  But  I  'm 
out  to  smash  the  machine." 

"  The  machine?  "  I  queried  hopefully. 

He  didn't  think  me  worth  the  trouble  of  explanation.  I  sup- 
pose some  one  had  been  telling  him  that  wars  are  arranged  solely 
for  the  benefit  of  the  rich,  and  although  his  knowledge  of  eco- 
nomics was  confined  to  labor  pamphlets  he  believed  it,  as  he 
believed  everything  written  in  labor  pamphlets. 

He  told  me  that  he  was  coaching  the  slower-witted  of  his 
comrades  for  their  appearance  at  tribunals.  He  had  a  gleeful 
sense  that  he  was  assisting  at  treasonable  practices. 

"Come  and  have  some  tea,"  Tommy  said.  "If  you're  not 
too  good  to  be  seen  with  the  likes  of  us." 

I  was  abject  enough  to  rise  to  the  taunt. 

"There's  a  vegetarian  place  near,  where  we  always  go,"  she 
added. 

We  walked  down  four  side-streets  to  a  small,  steamy  room 
hung  with  reed  mats,  and  full  of  the  most  horrible  painted  pots. 
Tommy  led  the  way  to  a  corner  table.  "This  is  my  treat," 
she  announced,  and  ordered  three  cups  of  some  strange  drink. 
It  turned  out  to  be  a  coffee  substitute,  unspeakably  vile  of  smell,  ' 
and  abominable  of  taste.  She  eyed  me  unkindly  while  I  sipped 
the  treat. 

The  little  man  ate  poached  eggs  and  abused  England.  He 
seemed  to  hate  England.  No  enemy  accusation  could  have  been 


284  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

more  bitter  than  his.  He  would  not  discuss  the  follies  or  crimes 
of  any  other  nation,  but  he  discoursed  me  with  passion  on  the 
treachery,  greed,  and  ingratitude  of  his  own. 

"  When  I  was  home  on  my  last  leave,"  I  interrupted,  "  I 
saw  some  sailors  brought  ashore  from  a  torpedoed  tramp  steamer. 
It  was  a  bitter  day,  with  a  wind  like  a  lash  and  a  cruel  sea.  The 
men  had  taken  to  their  boats,  of  course,  and  they  had  been  fired 
on  as  they  crouched  there.  Some  were  killed  and  some  were 
wounded.  The  boat  was  beastly  to  look  at.  No  worse  than 
the  trenches,  of  course,  but  the  sea  is  man's  common  enemy,  and 
it  doesn't  seem  decent  to  me  to  take  sides  with  her  in  the  way 
the  Germans  do." 

He  stared.  "  Our  Navy  does  far  worse  things  than  that,"  he 
said,  "  but  they  don't  get  into  the  papers." 

"  You  guzzling  little  beast,"  I  cried. 

He  grinned.     "  Of  course,  if  you  will  believe  all  you  read  .  .  ." 

He  did,  but  then  he  and  I  read  different  things.  I  suppose 
that  neither  of  us  considered  the  other's  point  of  view  worth  the 
attempt  at  understanding.  Moreover  I  had  a  sudden  loathing 
of  his  loose-mouthed  smile  and  general  slackness  of  body.  His 
neck  wanted  washing,  and  I  sought  a  feeble  relief  in  calling  him 
a  filthy  blackguard.  But  that  delighted  him  beyond  measure. 

"  You  must  n't  talk  to  Hearne  like  that,"  Tommy  said  mali- 
cipusly.  "  He 's  simply  bursting  with  national  feeling." 

The  little  man  wriggled  for  joy.  "There  is  no  such  thing," 
he  said.  "  Take  it  from  me  —  it 's  a  newspaper  dodge." 

I  opened  my  mouth  to  reply  and  shut  it  again.  I  should  be 
a  fool  and  mad  to  argue  with  him.  If  I  let  his  attitude  of  mind 
annoy  me,  so  much  the  worse  for  me.  It  had  in  reality  no  rela- 
tion to  the  War.  The  War  had  not  created  him,  nor  even  de- 
veloped him.  He  was  one  of  a  class  which  exists,  a  menace  and 
a  shame,  in  every  modern  state.  He  was  a  slave,  and  half  edu- 
cated. 

Quite  suddenly  I  understood  why  he  was  so  ready  to  talk, 
with  his  mouth  full  of  poached  egg,  on  the  perfidy  of  the  Briton 
and  the  glory  of  the  German.  Distorted  out  of  recognition  by  its 
Struggle  against  the  bitter  sense  of  wrong  done  him,  the  ancient 


CHAOS  285 

impulse  to  national  pride  yet  stirred  in  him.  Painfully,  it  was 
forcing  its  way  to  the  surface  of  his  mind  in  the  form  of  a  savage 
determination  to  find  good  in  some  alien  nation  —  in  any  nation, 
so  long  as  it  were  not  the  one  that  had  starved  and  thwarted 
him  all  his  life. 

"  You  're  only  a  Chauvinist  upside  down,"  I  murmured. 

"Eh?  "  he  said,  staring. 

I  pondered,  in  what  Tommy  would  have  called  my  crude  fash- 
ion, whether  at  this  stage  of  human  development,  one  might  ex- 
pect to  find  faiths  that  have  as  yet  small  credit  housed  with  most 
readiness  and  comfort  in  imperfect  bodies.  The  hermits  of  the 
early  Christian  age  clearly  thought  so;  they  spared  themselves 
no  rigors  of  mortification  that  could  destroy  the  body. 

"  Have  another  cup?  "  Tommy  said  abruptly. 

I  tried  to  control  my  face.     "  Good  God,  no "  I  answered. 

"  You  're  awfully  rude." 

"  I  thought  you  liked  to  be  treated  as  if  you  were  a  man." 

"Soldo.     Why  should  n't  I?" 

"  A  man  would  n't  have  been  offended  at  my  reply." 

"  Neither  am  I,"  she  cried  shrilly.  "  You  've  no  right  to  say 
I  'm  offended." 

"  I  wonder  why  you  are  a  pacifist,"  I  said.  "  You  're  so  re- 
markably belligerent."  I  knew  that  I  was  behaving  disgrace- 
fully to  my  hostess.  Hostess  in  spite  of  me,  and  to  my  grief. 
But  I  had  suffered  so  much  from  the  pair  of  them. 

She  fell  into  the  trap  and  began  an  involved  defense  of  pacifism 
from  which  I  gathered  that  the  intellectual  position  of  the  pacifist 
was  too  lofty  to  be  comprehended  by  the  non-elect  and  that  the 
veriest  fool  ought  to  understand  its  inevitable  commonsense  and 
righteousness. 

Clearly,  thought  I,  she  is  immensely  attracted  and  made  en- 
vious by  the  intellectual  arrogance  of  the  pacifists  she  has  met. 
She  seemed  to  dread  lest  she  should  appear  so  far  unintellectual 
as  to  be  moved  by  sentiment.  I  think  it  was  that  prompted  her 
remark  — "  Oh,  my  goodness,  don't  talk  to  me  of  noble  mothers. 
They  are  all  fools  and  deserve  their  grief." 

I  guessed  at  another  and  more  potent  reason  for  her  attitude. 


286  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

Consciously  or  unconsciously,  she  was  jealous  of  the  shadowed 
part  that  women  play  in  war.  She  imagined  that  it  threatened 
her  longing  for  domination. 

"  I  should  never  have  forgiven  Dora  if  he  'd  joined  the  army," 
she  said,  "never,  never,  never.  For  one  awful  week  I  thought 
he  was  going  to.  But  luckily  for  him,  his  senses  came  back  in 
time  to  save  him.  I  'd  have  left  him  and  never  gone  back  to  him 
again." 

I  believe  she  would.  Instinctively,  she  was  eager  to  do  any- 
thing to  prove  her  contempt  for  so  masculine  a  business  as  war. 
She  wanted  to  throw  stones  at  the  monster  to  compel  recognition 
of  her  own  importance. 

Her  instinct  was  perfectly  trustworthy,  of  course.  War  is  the 
enemy  of  all  women. 

But  this  woman  did  not  hate  war  because  it  brought  misery. 
She  hated  the  warrior,  the  fighting  spirit,  and  the  fighting  intellect. 
She  loathed  militarism  as  do  all  good  men.  But  not  for  its 
genuine  evils.  She  feared  it  and  disliked  it  through  that  jealousy 
of  what  is  distinctively  male  which  all  women  have,  but  which 
she  had  in  an  abnormal  degree. 

"  Of  course,  I  don't  pity  the  mothers  of  dead  sons.  Why  should 
one  pity  wilful  fools?  They  should  have  brought  their  sons  up 
better.  If  I  had  a  son  and  he  joined  the  army  I  'd  spit  in  his 
face." 

Curiously  enough,  it  was  of  no  sorrowing  mother  that  I  thought, 
but  of  Jack  Chamberlayn's  father  as  I  had  just  seen  him.  She 
had  so  much  damned  talk,  and  he  was  dumb,  with  eyes  through 
which  no  spirit  peered,  staring  upon  a  world  that  gave  him  back 
empty  stare  for  stare. 

"Since  you  don't  ever  intend  to  have  a  son,"  I  said,  "your 
fortitude  is  not  likely  to  be  put  to  the  test,  and  your  influence  on 
the  next  generation  may  be  taken  as  nil." 

I  repented  the  words  as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  my  mouth, 
but  I  might  have  spared  myself  the  trouble,  for  she  hardly  noticed 
them.  And  before  she  could  answer  me,  her  attention  was 
caught  by  two  people  who  had  just  come  in  and  were  looking 
vainly  for  an  empty  table. 

She  stood  up  and  waved  her  spoon  at  them.     "  Mrs.  Mannick, 


CHAOS  287 

Mrs.  Mannick,"  she  bawled.  "  There 's  room  here.  Come  and 
sit  with  us.  Heaps  of  room." 

I  turned  my  head.  I  had  forgotten  the  name,  but  I  could  never 
forget  the  person.  With  smiles  and  fluttering  of  hands  the  two 
simple  Christians  approached  our  table.  The  man  edged  himself 
in  beside  me  as  he  had  been  wont  to  edge  into  our  rooms  with 
his  deferential  smile  for  Margaret  and  his  horrible,  eager  friend- 
liness for  us.  His  wife  cut  his  greeting  short.  She  looked  at 
me  once. 

"  You  are  in  the  army,"  she  remarked.  Thereafter  she  said  no 
word  to  me,  but  many  words  and  hard  ones,  at  my  degraded  soul. 
I  think  she  had  persuaded  herself  that  she  hated  war  because  her 
religion  demanded  it,  but  in  very  truth  she  ought  to  have  blessed 
the  chance  that  had  broadened  her  hunting-ground.  Her  store- 
house of  unpleasant  tales  was  pressed  down  and  running  over  with 
new  and  startlingly  foul  stories  of  soldiers  and  women.  She  was 
like  the  man  in  the  Scriptures  who  had  to  build  himself  new  barns 
for  his  harvest.  Her  harvest  simply  could  not  be  contained. 
She  spilled  it  all  over,  her  conversation. 

Her  husband  leaned  heavily  on  Christ.  It  must  have  been  a 
real  relief  to  him  to  find  a  ground  on  which  he  could  meet  the 
Nazarene  with  no  inward  shrinking.  "  Will  shed  no  man's 
blood,"  he  murmured,  and,  "  Given  myself  to  Christ." 

I  cannot  think  comfortably  of  Mr.  Mannick  and  his  castrated 
Christianity.  His  Master  might  have  forgiven  him  his  helpless 
treachery;  but  I  would  I  were  a  Turk  to  address  him  as  "  Dog  of  a 
Christian,"  by  way  of  distinguishing  him  from  honorable  men 
who  have  professed  his  faith  with  less  unction  and  more  grace. 

At  first,  catching  in  him  some  faint  echo  of  Kersent's  fanatical 
courage,  I  said  to  myself  that  he  was  actually  tolerable.  I  com- 
pared him  with  the  cocksure  intellectuals  on  the  other  side  of 
the  table,  and  he  found  favor  in  my  sight.  But  as  he  shambled 
on,  drenching  me  in  a  blashy  spirituality,  I  suffered  a  violent 
revulsion.  I  groaned  inwardly — "Any  kind  of  intellectual  ar- 
rogance of  any  other  kind  of  pacifist  —  anything  —  except  this 
man's  sentimental  humility."  I  even  turned  for  relief  to  his  wife. 
She  at  least  did  not  invoke  divine  authority  for  her  anecdotes. 
She  was  in  the  middle  of  a  mild  one,  a  veritable  lamb  among 


288  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

anecdotes,  a  Watteau-dream,  a  dew-empearled  innocent.  "  Every 
one  knows,"  she  finished  solemnly,  "  that  no  officer  ever  goes  into 
the  trenches.  They  sleep  in  the  daytime,  and  carouse  all  night. 
The  poor  men  do  all  the  fighting." 

Credit  me  or  not  —  it  is  all  one  to  Hippocleides  —  but  that  is 
what  she  said.  And  she  supplied  details  of  the  carousals. 

I  shrank  within  my  uniform.  "  It  is  not  really  just  to  look 
upon  this  female  as  a  pacifist,"  I  reflected.  "She  is  rather  a 
human  type,  whom  an  accident  of  upbringing  or  religion  has 
pitchforked  into  pacifism!  "  I  became  aware  that  she  was  wait- 
ing for  me  to  answer  her.  "  I  suppose  officers  get  their  wounds 
throwing  champagne  bottles  at  each  other,"  I  said  feebly. 

Tommy  giggled,  and  I  burned  with  shame  at  the  wretchedness 
of  my  effort  at  self-assertion.  But  I  was  oppressed  by  the  thought 
that  I  should  only  be  another  fool  among  fools  if  I  let  myself 
fall  into  sarcasm  or  indignation,  or  even  honest  remonstrance. 

A  few  minutes  later  I  lost  my  temper.  "Upon  my  word," 
I  cried,  "  I  'm  damned  if  I  see  how  you  dare  withdraw  so  placidly 
from  the  agony  of  this  injustice  of  war  —  you  with  your  talk  of 
justice."  I  glared  at  the  amazed  Mannick.  "  War  is  not  de- 
testable just  because  Christ  forbade  it,  but  because  it  is  a  shameful 
frenzied  waste  of  the  healthy  body  and  the  fine  mind  and  the 
courageous  spirit.  It  won't  be  ended  because  you  've  talked  at 
it  and  withdrawn  from  it.  Nothing  will  end  it  except  a  just 
ordering  of  society.  And  justice  will  have  to  be  fought  for 
—  did  you  suppose  it  dropped  like  manna  from  the  beneficent 
capitalist?  But  your  sort  doesn't  fight,  either  with  body  or 
spirit.  The  world  will  have  to  be  re-made  before  wars  will 
cease.  You  won't  do  that  by  giving  yourself  to  Christ  and  going 
on  the  land  to  avoid  military  service,  nor  yet  by  retreating  to 
Wormwood  Scrubs  lest  you  should  be  beguiled  into  tying  ban- 
dages round  immortal  devils  in  khaki." 

Mannick's  dropped  mouth  was  very  irritating  and  a  new  in- 
dignation seized  me.  "  Besides,  you  can't  withdraw  from  your 
kind  like  that,"  I  said  savagely.  "  You  are  men.  To  refuse  aid 
to  one  of  them  is  to  sin  against  your  common  humanity.  I 
don't  see  how  it  can  be  forgiven  you  that  you  stood  aside  not 
only  from  the  slaughter  but  from  the  suffering." 


CHAOS  289 

Tommy  giggled  again. 

Mrs.  Mannick  got  up  heavily,  and  stretched  a  hand  across 
the  table.  She  removed  the  plate  of  cakes  from  her  husband's 
very  grasp,  and  said,  "  Eat  one  more  and  I  '11  not  be  answer- 
able for  the  consequences.  You  'd  better  come  away  now." 

He  hid  his  disappointment  with  a  Christ-like  cheerfulness, 
and  followed  her  out  of  the  cafe. 

Oh,  wonderful  woman,  you  were  a  dutiful  wife  and  a  con- 
scientious mother.  Your  husband  feared  you  and  your  sons 
called  you  meddlesome.  Your  reward  is  not  here. 

"  Oh  Lord,"  said  Tommy,  "  Oh  Lordy  me.  That  just  reminds 
me.  I  promised  faithfully  to  go  home  and  get  tea  ready,  and 
kick  things  into  their  places  a  bit.  Dora  's  bringing  a  man  home 
to  tea.  They  '11  be  there  by  now." 

She  pushed  a  shilling  into  my  hand,  and  hurried  out  of  the  cafe, 
leaving  me  to  pay  for  the  nauseous  meal.  I  walked  after  her, 
and  caught  her  up  just  as  she  was  climbing  on  to  a  'bus. 

"  Here  's  your  shilling,"  I  called.     "  I  don't  want  the  thing." 

"Keep  it."  She  leaned  over  the  top  of  the  'bus  as  it  moved 
off.  "  Kersent 's  dead,"  she  screamed.  "  Did  you  know?  Died 
yesterday  in  prison." 

I  looked  round  to  find  the  little  man  at  my  elbow,  grinning 
maliciously.  "  They  murdered  him,"  he  said  complacently. 

I  could  have  knocked  him  into  the  gutter.  "  Oh,  you  fool," 
I  stammered,  "  you  fool.  You  were  n't  fit  to  clean  his  shoes." 

I  turned  and  ran  along  the  Strand,  leaving  him  gaping  after  me. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  NTHONY  began  to  chant  at  the  top  of  his  voice:  — 

The  naked  earth  is  warm  with  Spring 
And  with  green  grass  and  bursting  trees, 

Leans  to  the  Sun's  gaze  glorying 
And  quivers  in  the  sunny  breeze. 

"  I  'm  sorry,  dear  old  thing.  I  spoke  in  my  haste.  When  I 
crawled  out  of  my  cellar  yesterday  morning  I  found  a  whole  bed 
of  violets.  I  've  brought  you  three  in  my  pocket  book  to  prove 
it  true." 

We  pushed  our  way  along  the  platform,  talking  against  each 
other. 

I  sat  on  the  bed  in  the  room  I  had  engaged  for  him,  and 
watched  while  he  emptied  his  bag  on  the  floor  in  a  frenzied  search 
for  Georgian  poets. 

"  Some  fool  sent  me  that,"  he  said,  holding  the  volume  between 
finger  and  thumb.  "Aren't  people  at  home  extraordinary?  I 
shall  make  a  present  of  it  to  some  one." 

"  Don't  you  carry  books?  "  I  asked. 

"Oh  yes,  a  few  —  my  Malory  .  .  .  Oh,  and  did  I  tell  you? 
Our  G.  S.  0.  I.  is  a  man  of  one  book  —  the  'Morte  d'Arthur.' 
Every  night  after  dinner  he  lugs  it  out  and  reads  in  it  until  he 
goes  to  bed.  One  day,  in  the  course  of  a  little  quiet  boasting,  I 
made  mention  of  my  own  copy.  He  asked  me  what  edition  it 
was,  and  I  said  Caxton's,  at  random.  Whereupon  he  proved  to 
me  by  internal  evidence  that  it  could  not  possibly  be.  After- 
wards, thinking  he  'd  depressed  me  too  severely,  he  said  — *  You  '11 
never  be  a  scholar,  my  friend,  but  for  your  encouragement  I  '11 
admit  you  have  the  makings  of  a  soldier.'  " 

I  laughed.  "What  sort  of  a  Mess  have  you?  I  never  saw 
a  Staff  in  its  hours  of  ease." 

"  Signs  of  the  times,"  said  he.  "  In  a  Staff  Mess  of  eight 
people,  the  'New  Age/  'New  Witness'  and  'New  Statesman' 


CHAOS  291 

are  on  the  side-table  every  week.  And  the  General  looks  graver 
and  more  puzzled  all  the  time.  There 's  a  war  on,  of  course,  to 
distract  our  minds  —  and  Heaven  knows  they  need  distraction 
after  reading  the  home  newspapers.  Look  here,  did  I  ever  give 
or  lend  you  my  '  Spirit  of  Man '?  My  stock  of  quotations  is 
getting  low."  He  went  across  the  room  to  look  out  of  the 
window.  "  Oh,  London !  We  did  n't  know  how  well  off  we 
were  in  the  old  days.  I  'm  not  taking  away  the  palm  from  a 
few  other  places  on  earth,  you  know.  *  In  the  Highlands,  in  the 
country  places,  Where  the  old  plain  men  have  rosy  faces.'  Hills 
and  the  sea.  Snow  in  the  pine  woods  and  birch  glens  running 
down  to  the  sea.  Streams  and  waterfalls." 

"  I  've  seen  the  Duke,  and  Kersent  's  dead,"  I  said  abruptly. 

Anthony  wheeled  round.  "  Oh,"  he  said.  And  then  — "  I 
never  thought  he  'd  die.  He  did  n't  expect  to  die." 

"  How  do  you  know  that?  "  . 

"  I  had  a  letter  about  him."  He  rummaged  afresh  among  his 
things.  "  Margaret  wrote.  She  'd  been  to  see  him  in  prison. 
Here  —  read  it." 

I  put  it  away  in  my  pocket. 

"  I  '11  read  it  later,"  I  said. 

"  Eh,  but  I  'm  sorry,"  he  added.  "  He  was  no  coward.  But 
I  Ve  seen  human  nature  very  undisguised  this  last  month,  and  do 
now  believe  that  only  one  man  in  a  hundred  is  not  a  hero,  and 
that  ninety-nine  in  a  hundred  are  fanatical  fools." 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes  and  then  laughed. 

"  A  funny  thing  happened  the  other  day.  You  know  there 's 
a  movement  on  foot  to  interest  officers  and  men  in  social  study 
with  a  view  to  simplifying  adjustments  after  the  war.  The 
spirit  of  the  thing  is  all  right,  but  it 's  being  run  by  generals  and 
padres  and  people  who  have  still  to  learn  the  rudiments.  I  say 
it 's  dilettante,  and  had  better  be  run  by  omniscients  from  the 
School  of  Economics  and  sic-like  people.  I  proposed  a  systema- 
tized education  of  padres  and  generals  by  the  Central  Labor 
College,  and  one  red-faced  High  Priest  got  up  and  said  — 
*  You  're  little  better  than  an  Eikonoklast.'  Truth  will  out,  you 
see."  He  chuckled  with  delight.  "  Who  told  you  Kersent  was 
dead?  "  he  asked  suddenly. 


292  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

"  Tommy.     I  met  her  this  afternoon. 

"  The  volatile  Tommy.  What 's  that  husband  of  hers  doing? 
Isn't  he  in  prison?  Perhaps  he'll  die  too." 

"  He 's  not  in  prison.  He  's  exempt  so  long  as  he  stays  at  his 
work.  Tommy  says  he's  going  on  the  land  —  got  a  Quaker 
farmer  to  take  him  on  as  a  carter  or  something.  I  don't  know 
how,  but  that 's  saved  him.  The  Mannick  goes  with  him." 

"  And  Kersent  dead  in  prison." 

Late  that  night  when  I  was  alone,  I  took  Margaret's  letter  out 
of  my  pocket  and  turned  the  pages  awkwardly.  There  was  a 
good  deal  about  Kersent,  but  I  do  not  remember  all. 

"  I  went  to  see  if  there  was  anything  I  could  do  for  him,"  she 
wrote.  "  He  seemed  glad  to  see  me.  I  imagine  that  in  some 
queer  way  it  is  a  relief  to  him  to  be  in  prison.  I  suppose  he  feels 
that  he  has  reached  rock-bottom  and  can  drop  no  further.  He  is 
full  of  plans.  '  After  the  war,  I  shall  be  needed  to  rebuild,'  he 
said  quietly.  '  I  could  have  been  building  now  while  the  rest 
of  you  are  destroying,  but  it  is  no  matter,  after  all.  I  don't  mean 
that  I  shall  go  into  labor  politics:  I  don't  want  to  be  paid  for 
special  pleading.  The  world  seems  to  have  caught  a  malicious 
madness.  Anything  of  good  is  just  now  far  more  likely  to  fail 
than  to  succeed.  I  haven't  an  idea  how  near  we  are  to  revolu- 
tion, but  I  feel  that  anything  may  happen.'  He  is  gnawed  by 
a  lack  of  companionship  —  yes,  even  Kersent,  who  seemed  to  live 
so  isolated  a  life  when  he  had  friends  round  him.  There  are 
plenty  of  conscientious  objectors  in  the  prison,  but  he  has  only 
dislike  and  contempt  for  them.  *  Most  pacifists,'  he  said,  *  are 
utter  fools  in  everything  else.  They  are  all  too  intent  on  saving 
their  own  souls  to  care  about  making  the  world  fit  for  other 
men.  So  long  as  they  refrain  from  killing  they  think  they  are 
entitled  to  sit  in  the  deep  that  covers  them  and  stroke  their  un- 
conquerable souls.'  I  told  him  of  Chamberlayn's  death.  He 
showed  no  surprise.  *  I  expected  him  to  die,'  he  said  calmly. 
*  If  he  had  not  been  killed,  he  was  still  dead.  There  was  nothing 
of  him  growing.  In  reality  he  died  years  ago.  He  had  nothing 
to  give  to  life.  Men  like  that  make  a  great  show  of  vigor:  they 


CHAOS  293 

run  madly  into  blind  alleys  and  beat  their  heads  on  walls.  They 
accomplish  nothing.' 

"  Afterwards  he  said,  '  I  am  filling  my  days  with  reading  about 
engineering  and  scientific  work  —  which  seems  to  be  the  only 
kind  this  miserable  race  does  well.  Some  of  the  tunnels  and 
bridges  and  things  are  wonderful.  Only,  it  is  all  mixed  up 
with  war  and  the  things  that  make  for  war.  And  yet  I  believe 
sometimes  that  the  chemist  and  the  engineer  hold  the  key  of  the 
future.' 

"  I  could  not  help  wondering  what  had  turned  his  thoughts 
to  the  work  and  the  ambitions  that  so  intrigued  poor  Jack,  whom 
he  despised.  And  yet  Jack  Chamberlayn,  dying  in  No  Man's 
Land  under  the  wreckage  of  his  machine,  knew  something  that 
Kersent  did  not.  Kersent  sacrificed  himself  on  the  altar  of  an 
unattained  perfection,  but  the  other  knew  that  it  is  sometimes 
imperative  to  fight  for  the  second  best,  undeterred  by  its  im- 
perfections. 

"  I  thought  that  Kersent  looked  wretchedly  ill.  I  asked  him 
if  he  were  all  right.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said,  '  Oh 
well,  I  can't  eat  the  food  they  give  me.  It 's  not  that  it  is  really 
bad  —  many  of  the  men  here  are  better  fed  than  ever  they  were 
before.  My  mother  has  spoiled  me  for  ill-cooked,  ill-served  food. 
I  shall  be  all  right.  Chamberlayn  died,  but  I  shall  live.  The 
world  has  need  of  me.'  I  thought  he  talked  like  a  man  shouting 
in  an  echoing  cavern.  He  said  something  about  moral  courage. 
Unconsciously,  he  seemed  to  draw  a  distinction  between  the  im- 
moral bravery  of  the  soldier  and  the  moral  bravery  of  his  own 
position.  I  was  almost  amused  to  see  that  the  shield  of  Henry 
Arthur  Kersent's  irony  was  not  so  impenetrable  that  he  could  go 
untouched  by  this  insinuating  vanity." 

I  folded  the  letter  and  sat  thinking,  with  my  head  pressed 
against  the  window.  The  great  buildings  lay  hunched  in  the 
darkness  like  beasts  asleep.  A  squat  shadow  with  a  low  line  of 
houses  on  either  side  was  a  vast  shoulder  with  menacing  arms  and 
closed  fists.  I  pretended  to  myself  that  the  future  lay  in  those 
shut  hands. 


294  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

Chamberlayn  had  died,  Anthony  was  a  V.C.  and  a  Staff  Cap- 
tain, Oliver  a  peasant  with  a  golden  tongue.  I  shook  with  laugh- 
ter. "  God,  what  a  queer  crowd  of  friends  are  mine !  When  the 
ghost  of  Chamberlayn  comes  back  to  see  us,  does  he  prefer  the 
Staff  Mess  or  the  laborer's  cot?  Have  you  no  warning  for  me, 
old  ghost?  Good,  kind  ghost  of  my  friend." 


CHAPTER  XV 

I  WROTE  those  last  words  a  week  ago,  and  have  not  found  it  in 
my  heart  to  add  to  them.     I  have  written  nothing,  but  I  have 
though!  a  little  about  the  fools  who  gathered  round  me,  poor  fool, 
in  that  detestable  cafe. 

The  conjunction  of  war  and  Mr.  Mannick,  and  of  war  and  the 
malicious  little  man  whom  I  did  not  kick  into  the  gutter,  raises 
questions  unconnected  with  the  villainy  of  the  Central  Empire. 
When  war  is  loathsome  why  do  we  not  all  sit  in  a  cafe  and 
exchange  sad  tales  of  old,  unhappy  far-off  things? 

I  cannot  think  that  the  question  is  answered  by  assuming  the 
inferior  spirit  or  the  superior  intelligence  of  Dora  and  the  little 
man  whom  I  wish  I  had  kicked  into  the  gutter. 

I  loathe  war  and  Mr.  Mannick  with  equal  fervor.  Can  it  be 
that  I  loathe  Mr.  Mannick  because  he  is  so  godly? 

Something  of  the  discredit  incurred  in  the  stoning  of  the 
prophets  must  be  laid  to  the  account  of  the  prophets.  The  in- 
cident of  the  children  and  the  bears  may  be  extreme,  but  Elisha 
is  not  the  only  ill-natured  man  of  God  with  whom  it  has  been 
impossible  to  live  in  amity. 

It  is  probable  that  the  contempt  with  which  I  had  been  treated 
rankled  in  me  —  and  the  coffee  substitute.  I  had  not  merited 
either.  But  the  pacifist  who  assumes,  as  he  usually  does,  the 
transcendent  superiority  of  his  intellect,  has  frequently  the  pun- 
ishment he  challenges:  he  is  misunderstood.  It  is  hard  to  be 
just  to  a  man  who  is  blatantly  convinced  that  you  cannot  appre- 
ciate his  position  because  it  is  too  high  for  you.  Even  Kersent 
was  inclined  to  pose  himself  and  Life  as  matched  antagonists. 

He  took  up  an  attitude,  as  if  life  were  somehow  static,  a 
changeless  attribute  to  be  predicted  of  all  animate  things. 

The  thought  of  Kersent  brought  me  up  short.  I  might  kick 
the  lay  figure  of  Dora  off  the  stage  and  come  again  with  joy, 

205 


296  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

but  what  good  did  that  while  the  other  remained,  smiling  his 
ironic  smile,  unshaken  and  remote? 

Kersent  dead  was  a  deathless  challenge.  Living,  he  could 
be  ignored  and  his  prison  walls  no  less.  He  sat  in  prison,  a 
secretive  spider,  hiding  within  himself  his  justification  and  his 
future.  Like  his,  my  mind,  leaping  walls  and  years,  could  see 
him  already  in  the  quiet  times,  pardoned  and  honored,  guarding 
his  racked  heart  with  irony,  lest  he  should  have  pity  or  gratitude 
of  the  men  he  could  neither  hate  nor  love  even  while  he  labored 
for  them. 

He  had  died  and  taken  with  him  alike  his  justification  and  his 
future.  He  wrapped  himself  in  death  as  in  a  cowl,  and  mocked, 
saying,  "  I  remain  unjustified,  and  ye  also." 

In  my  first  lonely  weeks  in  this  place  I  saw  him  constantly. 
He  came  always  as  at  that  Eikonoklast  meeting  when  the  other 
rushed  in  with  his  talk  of  war.  He  dragged  his  dingy  basket- 
chair  into  my  room  and  sat  himself  down  with  me,  his  fine  hair 
straggling  over  the  cushions  and  his  burning  eyes  fixed  on  the 
eyes  behind  my  blindness.  And  there  he  talked  of  life  and  the 
value  of  life.  A  dead  man  glorifying  Life.  "  After  all,"  I  said 
to  him  once,  "in  an  age  when  men  are  pouring  out  life  like 
water  you  did  but  remind  them  that  they  were  destroying  that 
which  they  could  not  create.  Only,  strange  fate,  you  had  to 
pour  away  your  own  life  to  do  it." 

And  yet  I  could  never  bring  myself  to  credit  even  Kersent  with 
a  greater  share  of  moral  courage  than  that  in  ordinary  demand 
from  the  soldier.  The  circumstances  of  Anthony's  V.C.  were 
vivid  in  my  mind.  The  war  has  revealed  Anthony,  releasing  him. 
The  skilled  phrase-maker  became  a  skilled  officer:  the  imperturb- 
able student  a  brilliant  man  of  action.  If  it  takes  a  brave  pacifist 
to  stand  in  a  pit  without  crying,  it  takes  precisely  the  same  sort 
of  courage  to  hold  a  redoubt  with  a  handful  of  men  for  four 
days  and  four  nights,  to  marshal  your  inadequate  forces  so  skil- 
fully as  to  repulse  all  attacks,  to  be  witty  on  half  a  biscuit  and 
the  prospect  of  immediate  annihilation,  and  to  impart  to  your 
comrades  the  deathless  spirit  of  your  own  endurance. 

While  I  thought  of  Anthony  the  pity  I  had  never  felt  before 
for  Chamberlayn  was  released  in  a  whelming  flood.  I  was  sick 


CHAOS  297 

at  heart  for  the  young  limbs  destroyed,  the  striving  brain  shat- 
tered, ambitions  unfulfilled,  hopes  unopened,  the  life  he  was  so 
eager  to  live  taken  away  —  a  half-tasted  cup. 

I  understood  that  it  was  with  these  men  that  I  contrasted 
Dora  of  the  slack  body  and  the  unjoyous  smile.  It  is  inevitable 
but  that  the  contrast  will  be  made.  It  is  responsible  for  the  lean, 
horrid,  hairy  pacifist  of  my  obstinate  imagination. 

Mick  has  written  me  from  his  Agricultural  Experiment  Station. 
I  have  had  the  letter  read  to  me  twice  and  its  phrases  are  tossed 
at  random  in  my  mind.  "  No  one  but  you,"  he  wrote,  "  can 
imagine  what  it  has  meant  to  me  just  now  —  this  cursed  lameness. 
I  have  come  to  hate  the  very  blueness  of  this  sea:  I  stare  at  it 
with  a  heart-sickening  longing  for  the  gray  north  seas.  I  make 
every  kind  of  fool  of  myself.  A  British  destroyer  came  wander- 
ing through  these  waters  a  few  weeks  ago  and  I  tell  you  that 
tears  came  into  my  eyes.  I  half  killed  one  of  these  damned  Danes 
for  abusing  the  English  Navy.  Yes  —  I  —  Michael  rjearne  — 
scoffer  at  parochial  jealousies!  The  sight  of  that  gray,, British 
boat  set  the  blood  leaping  in  my  veins.  God,  I  could  have  fought 
the  whole  world  for  England  .  .  . 

"  You  Ve  a  lot  to  say  about  Kersent.  Well,  as  you  know,  when 
we  were  at  King's  I  more  or  less  worshiped  old  Kersent.  I  can 
hardly  believe  he's  dead:  he  was  such  an  indomitable  blighter. 
He  was  worth  ten  of  Chamberlayn  —  spiritually  speaking.  But 
my  sympathies  are  all  with  Jack  and  '  My  country  right  or 
wrong.' 

"Kersent's  ideals  lit  him  as  a  torch  is  lit.  Why  didn't  they 
get  hold  of  my  imagination,  and  yours,  and  Anthony's,  and  Cham- 
berlayn's?  .  .  . 

"  I  've  thought  of  those  other  savages  that  spilt  the  blood  of 
human  sacrifice  over  their  land  to  ensure  its  fertility.  And 
Christ  spilt  Himself  —  a  sacrifice  to  His  own  ideal.  Half  the 
world  gathered  that  harvest.  And  now  Englishmen  who  call 
themselves  followers  of  the  same  ideal  have  scattered  its  tenets  to 
the  winds  —  to  ensure  our  national  freedom,  whatever  that  may 
mean.  /  don't  know  what  it  means :  it 's  mixed  up  in  my  mind 
with  the  unreasoning  affection  I  felt  for  that  ugly  gray  boat, 


298  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

"  I  suppose  it 's  just  that  unreasoning  feeling  lifted  us  from  the 
beasts  that  perish,  fighting  only  for  lust  or  interest.  I  wanted  to 
fight  for  England.  I  'd  have  fought  any  damned  nation.  And 
that 's  all  wrong,  you  know  .  .  . 

"  It 's  a  Janus  feeling.  One  side  of  me  remembers  only  the 
tale  of  our  island  virtues  and  reflects  jealously  on  their  glories. 
This  is  what  your  intellectuals  call  preserving-respect-for-national- 
self -determination.  You  remember  how  our  grandfather  resented 
interference  with  his  domestic  chastisements,  which  were  appal- 
ling, because  by  God,  a  man  must  be  judge  of  his  own  house- 
hold's needs,  or  where,  by  God,  would  meddling  end  ? 

"  The  other  side  —  well,  I  'm  damned  if  I  know  what  the  other 
side  is  like.  The  voice  is  the  voice  of  Mr.  H.  G.  Wells,  but  the 
hands  are  closed  and  so  may  the  eyes  be  for  all  I  know  .  .  . 

"  If  I  live  until  my  brain  has  shrivelled  like  a  dried  pea  in  an 
empty  pod,  I  shall  never  stomach  Kersent's  love  of  Humanity. 
How  the  devil  can  a  man  feel  for  a  universal  mush!  But  I 
suppose  the  same  impulse  that  drove  us  to  a  national  vision  may 
push  the  boundaries  to  the  world's  rim.  Or  would  that  be  the 
old  Napoleonic  madness?  .  .  . 

"  It 's  quite  certain  that  Jack  Chamberlayn  never  thought  of  a 
World-State.  In  some  fashion,  fumbling  or  confident,  he  only 
thought  that  he  ought  to  fight  for  the  English  ideal  of  gov- 
ernance lest  a  worse  be  put  in  its  place.  But  he  did  n't  fight  for 
the  slums  with  their  starved  and  verminous  children.  He  did  n't 
fight  to  keep  millions  of  his  fellows  on  the  edge  of  a  scrambling 
respectability,  cowed  and  coarsened  by  the  insecurity  that  dogs 
them  from  birth  to  death. 

**  It  will  be  dark  in  a  few  minutes.  You  never  saw  a  Southern 
night.  It 's  wonderful,  of  course,  but  I  'd  sell  all  its  silly  stars 
just  once  to  lie  face  downwards  on  an  English  moor  and  smell 
the  peat,  and  the  acrid  bracken  .  .  ." 

Michael  is  right.  Chamberlayn  did  not  think  of  hunger  and 
misery  when  he  thought  of  England.  He  thought  of  a  State 
upheld  by  free  men,  meting  out  an  equal  justice,  demanding 
from  all  men  service  and  giving  in  return  some  beauty,  the 
grave  delight  of  responsibility  and  the  peace  of  a  secure  life. 


CHAOS  299 

There  is  no  such  State.  He  and  his  comrades,  whether  they 
knew  it  or  not,  died  for  a  dream. 

If  an  archangel  were  to  descend  in  Piccadilly  Circus  and  bring 
to  pass  the  scrapping  of  all  armaments,  the  sinking  of  the 
navies,  the  demolition  of  the  munition  works,  and  the  conversion 
to  brotherly  love  of  their  owners  and  admirers  there  would  be  no 
more  war.  The  radiant  vision  for  which  the  airman  died  would 
leap  into  reality.  Alas,  the  gods  do  not  work  like  that;  the 
last  trump  may  be  a  penny  whistle  after  all.  He  will  not  come, 
that  healing  angel,  and  in  his  stead,  do  you  suppose  that  Dora 
will  be  equal  to  the  occasion?  .  .  . 

During  the  first  days  of  the  war  I  made  a  great  pretense  of 
arguing  its  justice.  And  the  outcome  of  it  all,  the  foredoomed 
outcome,  was  that  I  flung  myself  after  Chamberlayn  and  Anthony, 
afraid  only  of  being  left  with  Dora  and  Mr.  Mannick. 

What  does  it  matter  to  me  now?  I  shall  not  live  to  see  which 
fought  best  for  the  World-State  of  their  fumbling  imaginations, 
Kersent  dying  in  prison  for  his  unmanageable  desires,  or  Cham- 
berlayn dying  for  the  cracked,  imperfect  reality. 

What  does  it  matter  to  me?     My  faith,  how  lonely  I  am. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

MARGARET  came  yesterday.     She  came  up  the  path  as  I 
took  my  Golden  Treasury  from  its  wonted  place.     I  knew 
her  step,  and  I  heard  her  voice  when  my  good  landlady  opened 
the  door. 

She  seemed  to  hesitate  on  the  threshold,  and  then  she  came 
and  stood  before  me. 

"  I  would  have  come  before,"  she  said,  "  but  there  were  so 
many  things  to  do." 

This  seemed  to  me  so  strange  an  explanation  of  her  three 
months'  silence  that  I  stood  stiffly  and  found  nothing  to  say. 

"  I  might  have  written,  but  I  did  not  know  who  read  your  let- 
ters." Her  voice  faltered.  I  held  out  a  hand.  Then  in  a  mo- 
ment I  had  her  kisses  on  my  eyes  and  mouth.  I  stood  dry- 
throated  in  the  tide  of  love. 

**  I  can't  see  you,"  I  said. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  it  does  n't  matter  how  old  I  get,  or  hard, 
you  will  see  only  youth." 

I  held  her  hands  —  wings  that  quivered  to  be  free. 

"Why  have  you  come,  and  why  have  you  stayed  away?  " 

"  My  uncle  is  dead,"  she  said  simply.  **  He  was  ill  for  six 
weeks.  I  could  not  come  before.  There  were  things  to  do.  I 
did  not  want  to  leave  you  again.  I  wanted  to  stay  near  you 
until  we  can  be  married." 

"  You  can't  stay,"  I  answered  dully.  "  Are  you  very  rich 
now?  "  I  was  like  a  child  that  tears  curiously  at  a  toy  and 
weeps  for  its  destruction. 

She  laughed  gently.  "  I  could  n't  have  come  and  lived  on 
your  pension,"  she  murmured,  and  then,  "  Joy,  heart  of  mine, 
don't  you  want  me  now?  I  am  yours.  Don't  you  understand? 
The  money  isn't  mine  to  spend  on  me,  or  on  our  two  selves,  or 
even  on  our  children.  It 's  got  to  be  spent  well.  Who  can  guide 
my  hand  but  you?  What  does  it  matter,  oh  my  dear?  " 

"You  won't  regret?" 

300 


CHAOS  301 

"  I  regret  nothing  —  not  even  the  past." 

While  she  rested  in  my  arms,  my  mind  sought  to  see  itself  in  a 
hundred  things.  I  thought  of  a  bird's  cry,  far-off  and  high 
and  shrill:  of  a  giant  ash  that  stood  alone  on  a  hill,  and  mocked 
with  Odin  at  the  innocent  sky  and  the  young  weak  gods:  of  a 
note  struck  by  the  careless  wind  on  the  first  beech  trees,  caught 
up  and  shaken,  blown  with  a  million  hurrying  echoes,  until  the 
whole  forest  shudders  with  its  mysterious  and  triumphant  paean: 
of  a  sUr  that  rushed  between  the  knees  of  the  universe,  and  stood 
in  the  dome  of  the  sky.  My  life  swung  to  a  point,  crying  with 
bird,  mocking  with  ancient  tree,  chanting  with  forest  branches; 
filled  with  the  intolerable  radiance  of  the  star,  it  swung  and  rose 
and  made  itself  one  with  a  sound  more  thin  and  piercing  than 
light,  and  a  light  rolling  round  the  universe  like  sound. 

I  pressed  my  face  against  her  breast.  I  could  think  that  I 
saw  her,  so  sharply  strove  my  spirit,  a  bird  fluttering  behind 
closed  doors  .  .  . 

In  the  late  afternoon  we  took  our  way  to  the  forest  whose 
first  sparse  trees  are  on  the  hill  behind  the  house.  Fallen  leaves 
crackled  under  our  feet,  and  small  creatures  of  the  wood  scurried 
on  either  hand.  As  we  went  deeper  into  the  forest  the  trees 
closed  round  us  like  the  cloak  of  a  watchful  god.  We  climbed 
the  slope  of  a  small  rounded  hill,  stepping  between  the  roots  of 
the  trees.  The  top  was  sunken,  and  our  feet  pressed  into  the 
thick  bed  of  leaves,  covered  with  the  fine  pine  needles.  We  sat 
there,  and  when  I  turned  my  head  a  warm  band  lay  across  my  eyes. 
"  The  sun  is  passing  behind  us,"  I  said.  The  spear  of  the  dying 
god  thrust  between  the  trees  its  lucent  point.  When  that  lowered 
and  was  gone,  and  the  forest  murmured  round  us  like  a  murmuring 
verge  of  foam,  I  asked,  "  Is  it  too  dark  to  see  your  book?  Read 
me  something." 

She  turned  the  leaves  as  at  random.  "  Earth  hath  not  any- 
thing to  show  more  fair."  The  dear  voice  stopped.  "  Oh,  it 
is  too  dark.  I  cannot  see  to  read." 

"  No,  it  is  not  dark.     The  forest  is  still  awake." 

**  I  cannot  see." 

"Lift  your  head  from  my  arm  then,  and  look,  oh  wilfully 
blind." 


302  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

The  myriad  small  scents  of  earth  and  dying  leaves  mingled 
with  the  scent  of  her  hair.  I  held  a  strand  of  it  across  my  eyes. 
I  touched  the  cool  throat  and  small,  rounded  breasts  beneath  the 
thin  gown.  "Are  you  wife  of  mine?  "  I  whispered. 

"  Oh,  love  of  yours,  body  of  yours,  yours,  yours." 

Ripples  of  life  flooded  out  from  our  narrow  couch  —  out 
through  the  green  waves  of  the  forest,  further  and  wider,  wide  as 
the  world,  troubling  with  faint  eddy  the  shadowed  star-girt  space. 
Thin  sounds  woke  round  us  in  the  cloistered  night,  like  lithe, 
half-witted  things  who  ran  and  leaped  in  the  morning  of  the 
forest  that  hid  this  forest  in  its  womb.  Cloven-hoofed  and  hairy, 
they  peered  with  bright  eyes.  The  sunken  couch  that  knew  our 
joy  knew  theirs. 

Peace  folded  round  our  limbs.  We  lay  still,  sunk  in  the  deep 
wood  that  filled  the  night  with  tracery  of  shafts  and  spars.  A 
wind  came  from  the  empty  downs,  and  went  out  across  the  world. 
Far-off  and  high  and  shrill,  a  peewit  wheeled,  crying,  in  the 
empty  sky.  All  the  earth  was  loosed  of  life  and  silence  held 
empery. 

"Margaret." 

She  said  no  word,  though  her  lips  moved  under  mine. 

"Margaret:  you  have  taken  life  and  hid  it  between  your 
breasts.  The  world  is  dead  till  you  return  to  it." 

I  lifted  her  to  her  feet,  and  held  her  while  she  plaited  her  hair. 

"  My  fingers  shake,"  she  said,  and  laughed  softly  to  herself. 

I  took  the  plaits  and  fastened  them  round  her  head.  We  walked 
slowly  along  the  path  that  widened  as  we  went.  A  moment 
we  stood  with  the  forest  behind  us,  and  then  descended  towards 
the  valley  that  waited  far  below. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

AS  Margaret  reads  over  these  papers  for  me,  I  find  them  full  of 
bitterness  against  something  I  have  called   prejudice.     It 
seems  to  me  that  whereas  I  was  once  sure  of  what  I  meant  by  the 
word,  I  am  now  uncertain  and  hesitant. 

There  will  always  be  prejudice.  Faiths  arise  and  die,  and 
their  empty  husks  are  tended  by  the  kindly  hands  of  prejudice 
and  their  memories  cherished  in  its  fierce  heart.  Then  comes 
youth  with  the  hammer  of  Thor,  and  tramples  on  hands  and  heart. 
And  in  its  turn,  youth  grows  old. 

It  may  be  that  an  ancient  prejudice,  being  frail  and  polite,  is 
least  harmful.  The  prohibitions  of  the  old  code  have  so  little 
hold  on  youth  to-day  that  they  permit  it  a  scarred  freedom.  It 
troubles  me  that  I  cannot  find  even  that  altogether  good.  Sup- 
pose restraint  —  prejudice  —  were  necessary  to  the  hardening 
and  sharpening  of  youth? 

But  one  cannot  think  like  that,  or  nothing  would  be  done. 
After  all,  we  do  what  we  must. 

If  a  man  could  destroy  within  himself  the  bitterness  of  preju- 
dice, its  jealousy,  its  savage  need  to  force  all  other  men  to  wor- 
ship its  gods  and  enjoy  its  joys,  it  would  be  better  with  him.  To 
train  oneself  to  understand  and  to  respond  would  be  to  rob  preju- 
dice of  its  sting. 

This  was  to  have  been,  before  all,  a  happy  book.  Somehow,  in 
the  writing  of  it,  the  happiness  has  slipped  through  my  fingers 
and  become  small  —  so  very  small  on  the  highroad  of  life.  Is 
that  the  reality? 

I  do  not  believe  it.  I  have  but  to  close  one  door  in  my  mind 
and  open  another.  But  to  pass  through,  and  shut  it  behind  me. 
There,  in  a  red-walled  room,  Margaret  kneels  on  the  floor  before 
her  bookcase.  Now  and  then  she  brings  an  odd  book  to  the  fire- 
light to  read  the  title.  She  smiles  down  at  me  as  she  passes. 
She  spends  a  good  part  of  her  leisure  tidying  her  bookshelves, 
and  jealously  rescuing  books  that  have  strayed  into  our  shelves. 
Michael  is  offering  her  affectionate  sarcasm  on  the  habit.  The 

303 


304  THE  HAPPY  HIGHWAYS 

others  are  there,  each  in  his  favorite  place,  young  and  un- 
troubled. I,  alone  of  all  of  them,  know  that  the  door  against 
which  Oliver  is  leaning,  opens  on  to  roaring,  illimitable  space. 
The  windows  rattle  in  the  wind  and  the  rain  clatters  against 
them.  "  Good  thing  those  windows  are  stout,"  Mick  says.  "  The 
way  the  wind  sweeps  up  this  road." 

And  only  I  know  that  it  is  not  the  storm  but  the  years  beating 
on  them  in  vain.  .  .  . 

Kersent  taunted  me  once  that  I  achieved  mental  ease  by  heap- 
ing up  words  and  words.     I  do  not  at  first  understand  why  I 
should  have  thought  of  that  just  now.     Then  I  remember  that 
last  night  I  dreamed  of  Kersent.     I  opened  my  eyes  and  seemed 
awake.     Yet  even  in  my  dream  I  knew  I  could  not  be  awake, 
else  should  I  have  wakened  in  darkness.     But  in  my  dream  I 
saw  the  furniture  of  a  bedroom,  and  an  open  casement  window  set 
high  in  the  wall.     I  lay  in  bed,  looking  through  it  at  the  fiery 
ripples  of  dawn,  widening  in  the  sky.     A  figure  came  between 
them  and  me.     Kersent  stood  at  the  foot  of  my  bed.     At  his 
right  hand  a  young  owl  balanced  itself  on  the  wooden  rail. 
"Why  have  you  come?  "  I  asked. 
"  Only  to  greet  you.     We  both  fought  and  died." 
"  I  am  not  dead." 

"  You  are  a  prisoner  behind  bars." 

"  Tell  me,"  I  said,  "  do  you  think  now  that  you  were  right  to 
keep  out  of  the  battle  —  you  with  your  brotherly  love?  " 

He  laughed,  the  ghost  of  a  laugh  that  died  before  the  god  of 
mirth  was  born.  "  Your  words  mean  nothing,"  he  murmured. 
"No  man  ever  had  a  brother  of  his  own  kind.  His  brothers 
are  the  wind,  the  hills,  eagles,  rats  —  anything  on  earth  but  other 
men." 

"  Then  what  are  men?  " 

"A  dawrr-brood  of  birds,  that  are  dead  i'  the  sun.  How 
should  I  know?  " 

I  cried  out  in  involuntary  protest,  but  he  was  gone  and  I 
struggling  to  wake. 

Just  as  I  finished  breakfast,  my  landlady  came  into  my  room. 
She  put  something  into  my  hand,  something  warm  and  soft, 
that  moved  in  my  grasp,  thrilling  me  queerly. 


CHAOS  305 

"  T  is  a  baby  owl,"  she  said.  "  We  found  it  in  a  corner  of 
your  bedroom." 

I  must  have  heard  it  crying  as  I  slept. 

Kersent's  words  remained.  All  my  life  I  have  been  vaguely 
aware  of  a  spirit  in  me  that  is  alien  to  my  human  kind,  that 
responds  to  sudden  half-comprehended  calls,  and  remains  ob- 
stinately dumb  to  the  spirit  in  other  men.  It  cuts  me  off  from 
them.  When  I  could  see  men,  my  eyes  deceived  me  that  I 
touched  them  and  had  intercourse  with  them.  Now  that  the 
tricky  glass  is  broken,  I  understand  that  it  was  shadows  I  called 
and  shadows  answered  me.  The  spirit  in  me  waited,  always 
hesitant  and  afraid,  behind  the  threshold  of  my  thought.  It 
waited,  burdened  by  its  very  longing  to  respond. 

There  had  been  times  when  it  leaped  in  the  shadows  like  a  babe 
unborn.  When,  as  a  boy,  I  came  suddenly  upon  the  lights  of 
the  town,  gleaming  in  the  hollow.  The  man  less  often  knew  that 
ecstasy.  But  once  on  a  storm-threshed  rock,  and  once  in  a  forest, 
surely  my  spirit  had  leaped  to  touch  another. 

I  wondered  abruptly  if  the  forces  of  alienation  would  grow 
more  powerful  as  I  grew  old.  A  terrible  gulf  opened  in  front 
of  me.  I  turned  from  it,  shuddering  and  sick  at  heart. 

Margaret,  coming  lightly  along  the  passage,  opened  the  door. 
For  some  reason  she  did  not  cross  straight  to  me.  Something 
like  terror  seized  me.  **  Margaret,"  I  cried. 

She  came  quickly  and  seated  herself  beside  me  on  the  couch. 
She  drew  me  back  so  that  I  lay  in  her  arms.  "  My  dear,"  she 
whispered.  "  Oh  my  dear,  my  lover."  Her  hand  caressed  my 
hair.  I  laid  my  head  against  her  breast  and  the  warmth  of  her 
body  comforted  me. 

In  a  little  while  I  was  ashamed  of  my  inexplicable  anguish. 
Was  I  a  sick  man  or  a  child  to  be  running  for  comfort?  I  held 
her  in  my  arms  and  she  was  silent  under  my  kisses.  A  fierce, 
perilous  joy  thrust  into  me,  a  sword  into  the  scabbard  of  my  body. 

The  happiness  I  have  had  I  offer  gladly  to  life,  a  votive  gift. 
The  dappled  road  runs  behind  and  before  me,  and  the  wind  tears 
apart  the  crying  trees.  Life  is  a  good  horse  for  youth  to  ride, 
and  death  a  good  ostler,  whosever  may  keep  the  Inn. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  BROTHERHOOD  OF   MAN 

Man  that  is  brother  to  the  beasts, 
The  witless  beasts  that  leap, 

May  well  be  kin  to  thrusting  grass 
And  the  round  sky's  wanton  sweep : 

To  stars  that  whirl  in  fire  o'  nights, 
To  thorn's  sparse  blossomings, 

To  fields  earth-fast  on  western  slopes 
And  roaring  fiddle  strings. 

May  brother  be  to  horned  Pan, 
But  alien  ever  unto  man. 
Man,  ringed  in  iron  loneliness, 
Stalketh  the  earth  in  haughtiness, 

Then  in  a  narrow  cell  regretteth  day, 
Becometh  brother  to  his  own  decay. 


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